


The Meaning On My Skin

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Biological Dom/sub, Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Light Angst, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Sub Dean, Tattoo Artist Dean Winchester, Tattoos, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2019-11-12 06:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18005378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: Castiel Novak never wanted to be a Dominant. Living with the mark on his skin that designates him as one has haunted him every day of his life, and he goes to great lengths to avoid the part of his biology that he hates. When he makes the decision to get a tattoo with the intent of hiding his mark away, he meets Dean Winchester: tattoo artist and confident submissive.Dean turns Castiel’s world upside down and subverts every expectation Castiel ever had about himself and his designation. Will Dean be able to teach him how to be comfortable in his own skin?





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello guys! Welcome to my take on the biological Dom/sub trope! This is probably going to be a long fic with a mildly erratic posting schedule, because I'm a uni student who works part time and takes on way too many writing projects for her own good. But still! I'm jazzed about this fic and I can't wait to write it and share it with you guys. Thank you to [Crypto](https://cryptomoon.tumblr.com) for the lovely divider art, and to everybody who has let me shout about this fic with (or at) them. Love you all <3
> 
> Please note: there will be references to abuse in this fic. None of it is explicit/occurs onscreen and none of it happens to Dean or Cas. If you are worried about this and would like extra clarification to see if this fic is for you, you are welcome to shoot me a message on [tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com).
> 
> Enjoy!

For as long as he can remember, Castiel has dreaded his eighteenth birthday.

The night before, he had sat on his bed, staring down at his arm and wondering what it would look like tomorrow. Would it have a Dom mark? A sub mark? Would it have a mark at all?

That was the best outcome, he knew. For the clock to tick across midnight and for his arm to remain bare: unpresented. He would just be normal, with no psychological differences, nothing new or special or notable about him. His mother would be disappointed if he didn’t present, but that was hugely preferable to finding himself marked in the early morning of his eighteenth birthday.

Naomi Novak was a Dom, and was the kind of Dom who believed herself to be above all other presentations because of it. Becoming a sub on his eighteenth birthday would put himself in the line of her ire—abuse, he came to realize many years later—but ultimately, once he headed off to college, he would never have to see her again.

But presenting as a Dom…

He’ll never be able to wash the dark stain of his mother’s actions and influence from his soul. If he becomes a Dom, Castiel is afraid that one day, no matter how hard he tries, he will end up just like her.

The clock reads 11:59, September 17.

Castiel stares down at his arms. His fingers are curled into fists, his nails biting so deeply into his palms that they threaten to draw blood.

As much as he wishes it wasn’t, time marches inevitably on. He holds his breath.

The clock strikes 12, the first second of the morning of the 18thof September. Castiel Novak’s eighteenth birthday.

He blinks, and between one second and the next, a mark has appeared on his skin: a thick black line, running down the inner length of his left forearm.

Castiel inhales, a shuddering breath that seems to wrack his body, then releases it slowly. He lifts a hand, touches the mark with tentative fingertips. It doesn’t fade, doesn’t move, doesn’t disappear. Just stays there, quiet and immovable. Slowly, Castiel curls his fingers, digs them into the skin of his forearm, until there are four crescent shapes indented into his skin.

Still, the black mark stays put.

“No,” he breathes, still unable to quite comprehend what this means. What this means about _him_ , what this means he will _become_. “No, no, _no_.”

Castiel Novak, eighteen years old as of the 18th of September, has presented as a Dominant.

For many hours, in the privacy of his own bedroom and by the light of the moon that washes in through the window and illuminates the stark line on his forearm, he sits and stares. He stares until his brain is numb and quiet from shock, from grief, until his eyes burn from tiredness and his body desperately demands that he rest.

When he finally lies down and lets his head touch his pillow, when sleep finally claims him from an exhausted wakefulness, it’s with tears in his eyes and a heaviness in his heart that he knows now will never leave him.

Naomi Novak is thrilled with the news of her son’s presentation.

When Castiel comes downstairs the next morning, she doesn’t notice the dark bags under his puffy eyes, or the dejected drag of his socked feet against the hardwood floors. Instead, she zeroes in on his forearms, covered up by a long-sleeved pajama shirt that’s pulled down as far as it will go, Cas’s fingers curled around the hems of the cuffs.

“Well?” she demands, her arms folded, chin raised imperiously.

Castiel stares at the thick line running down her forearm, proudly displayed like a status symbol. She won’t give up until she knows—it’s not in her nature.

Slowly, he pulls up the edge of his left sleeve to show just the very bottom of his mark. His mother smiles—the kind of cold smile a shark gives, all teeth and terror and no real feeling behind it. “Thank goodness! I know you would turn out okay, Castiel.”

If he speaks, all his emotions, all the tears and the despair he’s holding back is going to overflow. Instead, he just nods, pulls his sleeves back down, and walks past her to the kitchen.

Naomi offers to take him out to dinner to ‘celebrate’, but Castiel hates that idea even _before_ she picks out a short-sleeved button-down for him to wear out to the restaurant. Instead, he packs himself a sandwich and gets into his car while she’s distracted by work. He turns up whatever’s on the radio just to drown out his own thoughts and _drives_ , his muscle memory taking him exactly where he needs to go without him having to think about it at all.

It starts to rain as he turns off the main road and passes through the cemetery gates to the small parking lot inside.

The light drizzle isn’t going to deter him, though. Castiel grabs his sandwich and climbs out of the car. Once again, his legs carry him through the cemetery without conscious thought, each footprint retracing steps that Castiel has taken hundreds of times.

In the corner of the cemetery, with a plain grey headstone and a plot kept meticulously free of weeds, lies Chuck Shurley’s grave.

A few tiny plants have sprung up here and there, and Castiel plucks them carefully out of the ground and tosses them aside before sitting down next to Chuck’s headstone. The ground is not yet damp enough for him to feel it, but the drizzle mists on his skin and on his clothes, and he blinks against it as it settles on his eyelashes.

“Hey, dad,” he says, and his voice cracks on the second word. “I, uh. I turned eighteen today.”

Ever since he was able to visit without Naomi, Castiel has come to the cemetery just to talk to his father. He never gets any kind of response—never expects any kind of response—but it does help. As long as he has someone to talk to, even if it’s the headstone of his father who’s ten years gone, all his issues feel just a fraction lighter on his shoulders.

“I presented. I’m a… well.” He clears his throat, no longer able to tell what’s rain and what’s tears beading on his lashes. “I’m like her,” he whispers.

Castiel can’t remember the last time he wanted to hear his father’s voice this badly. Until he died, he was always Castiel’s rock, the logical, supportive parent. Not having him here for this hurts like an open wound carved into Cas’s chest.

But for Chuck Shurley, death had been a blessing. Living the rest of his life married to Naomi…

“I don’t want to be like her, dad,” Cas whispers, face tipped up towards the grey sky. “I don’t want to be a Dom. I _never_ wanted this.”

He leans against the headstone and hugs his knees up to his chest. The tears flow freely now: for himself, for his father, what could have and should have and never came to be.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out into the September air. “I’m so sorry.”

Six months later, Castiel moves out of home.

After spending hours and hours on his application essays to maximize his chances of getting accepted _anywhere_ that’s not here, he receives a trickle of letters from different colleges around the country. Some have rejected him, and he’s perfectly okay with that, because it’ll only take one acceptance letter for him to have an excuse to leave.

In the end, he gets five.

He chooses Stanford, mostly because it’s the furthest away from home, and because from what he’s heard, California seems to be one of the most liberal, relaxed places he could go. Considering his rigid upbringing, he wants to see what that’s like. How other people think and feel and act towards one another.

So on the morning of his departure, he packs the bare essentials into a single bag, writes his mother a note, and leaves without so much as a backwards glance towards the house in which he’s spent eighteen and a half years of his life.

College is nothing like Castiel could have ever dreamed.

There are so many different people and so many different options for him to study, and it’s more freedom than he’s ever had in his life. He takes a variety of classes in his first year, eventually narrowing his study down to history and archival science. He makes a small group of friends, the closest of which is his roommate, Inias—unpresented.

The first time they’d met, Inias had stared at Castiel’s mark. Once he’d realized how uncomfortable it made Cas, he stopped, but from then on Castiel made sure to wear long sleeves when he could, and otherwise perfected the art of positioning his arm so the mark couldn’t be seen.

He graduates _summa cum laude_ a few years later, with much more knowledge and understanding of the world than he’d arrived with, and is immediately offered an internship with a nearby museum.

Castiel Novak’s future is looking brighter than ever—he has an internship, is renting a new apartment with Inias now that they’re graduated, and finally feels like he has a grip on his life.

But the dark stain that lingers on his skin and in the corners of his mind, the reminder of blood and pain and force, still lingers. His heart still aches when he thinks of an unattended grave back in his hometown, slowly collecting weeds in his absence.

No matter how good his life gets, he still despises the dark, black line on his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter to give you guys something to sink your teeth into!
> 
> Please note: I am not American, I have been to California exactly once. I am going to be handwaving a lot of the details regarding the museum Cas works at, certain aspects of the city he lives in, shit like that, because I have neither the energy nor impulsion to do a ton of research about it (I have also fucked myself with a series of details that would be difficult to retcon). Just know that this takes place somewhere in California, because one thing I do know is that Cas stayed relatively nearby to Stanford after he graduated. Enjoy!

Castiel wakes three minutes before his alarm goes off.

In those three minutes, he looks up at the ceiling—plain, off-white, unremarkable—and lets his brain wake up for the day ahead. It’s these few moments after waking, when his head is still clouded by sleep and his bedroom is soft with the light of the slowly rising sun, that he finds the quietest. Before he gets involved in the bustle of the day, before his brain is fully with the waking world, he gets a chance to just… be.

And then his three minutes are up. His alarm goes off, and he sits up with a groan, reaching for his alarm clock with one hand and rubbing at his eyes with the other.

So the day begins.

He drags himself out of bed and wanders out of his bedroom in his boxers—a luxury he can afford now that it’s just him in the apartment. It’s been a few weeks since Inias moved in with his girlfriend, and Castiel is finally starting to get accustomed to living alone. If he could, he’d get a cat to keep him company, but his apartment building is strictly against pets. Instead, he has his little family of houseplants dotted around the apartment now, and his first order of business for the day is to water them.

By the time he’s done and all his plants have been looked after, he’s slightly more awake. Breakfast is, as usual, a banana and a bowl of cereal, and then he makes his way back to his bedroom to make himself presentable for work.

Castiel strips out of his boxers as he makes his way over to his wardrobe and tosses them in the direction of the bed, then regards his selection with a weary sigh. He’s got a variety of lovely button-up shirts, but with the exception of a few that hardly ever get worn, they’re all long-sleeved. With summer creeping steadily closer, it’s getting harder and harder to find the willpower to put them on, but when the alternative means parading his mark around the city for everyone to see…

He sighs and reaches for the closest shirt.

Not even ten minutes later, he’s out the door, his bag in one hand as he locks his apartment door with the other. He’s made good time today—sometimes his morning routine changes depending on how he’s feeling, but today is a good day. He feels ready to take on anything that the world can throw at him.

The museum where Castiel works is a quick subway trip away from his apartment, and at nine on the dot he’s walking through the staff entrance, swiping his card against the reader by the door and pushing it open once the light has turned green.

“Morning, Castiel!” Alfie, one of the educators, waves at Castiel from where he’s taken up position in the corner of the staff room, various documents and brochures spread out around his laptop.

“Good morning,” Castiel replies, smiling. Alfie is a recent hire, a little younger but making up for his inexperience with enthusiasm. “Still working on the new pamphlets for the Roman wing?”

“You know it. The old ones are so outdated that they almost crumbled to dust when I took them off the shelf. I was worried I’d have to send them down to your department for restoration.” They share a laugh, but Castiel has work calling his name, and he’s not always the best at small talk. It’s not long before he excuses himself and leaves the staff room, walking his oft-trodden path through the building and down several staircases to the basement levels.

He loves being in the museum and perusing the exhibits, but down here is where he really gets to shine. As a registrar for the largest museum in the city, he gets to care for collections that come from all over the world and from almost every time period. It’s meticulous work, and it requires a high level of focus and organization, but for Castiel it’s absolutely perfect. He could spend hours down here in the archives, documenting and caring for the thousands of objects stored within the museum’s walls.

He doesn’t see anyone else around when he leaves his bag on his desk, but that doesn’t mean they’re not nearby; they’re probably already buried deep within the shelves and storage units, just like he will be soon. Castiel boots up his computer, lets out a steadying sigh, and then picks up his work exactly where he left off yesterday.

By the time lunchtime rolls around, Castiel has already made it more than halfway through the collection of imprint fossils that had been delivered earlier this week. Working like this usually helps him to keep his head clear, but when a few of his colleagues drop by to invite him out for lunch, he finds that there’s a headache building behind his temples.

Despite his hunger, he politely declines the offer, waiting until he’s certain they’ve left to venture up to street level in search of a quiet meal. The sandwich shop around the corner from the museum is close enough for him to visit and linger, people-watching over his chicken sub.

On this sunny Thursday afternoon, people from all walks of life are out and about. Castiel spots a father with his two children, a businessman on the phone outside the shop, a couple embracing on the far side of the street, too far away to see their designations. Two young women walk past the front window of the shop, wearing tank tops that show off numerous tattoos and laughing at some private joke. A thick, black band encircles each of their left wrists, and Castiel touches the inside of his forearm without thinking, fingers brushing cotton.

His next bite of sandwich tastes like dust in his mouth.

Castiel returns to the museum before his lunch hour is up and throws himself back into his work, but it doesn’t calm the nervous energy beneath his skin or the feeling of _not quite right_ that settles over his mind like a fog. 

Thirty minutes before Castiel is due to clock out for the day, Anna comes to find him.

“Hey, Castiel,” she says, and Castiel jerks himself out of his cataloguing haze, because it’s not often that the Collections Manager comes down to the basement without it being for a specific project or purpose. “Do you have time for a quick chat?”

“Of course!” He quickly saves the file he’s been working on, thankful that he’s just cataloguing and not working with any actual artefacts now, and turns in his chair to face Anna. “What did you want to talk about?”

She smiles and shakes her head gently, amused. “Not here, actually. Dr. Adler wants to see the two of us in his office.”

Dr. Adler wants to see _him_? Castiel gapes for a second—it’s one thing to have the Collections Manager come to see him unannounced, but for the museum director himself to want to speak to him?

“Why?” he blurts out without thinking, and immediately feels his cheeks heat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Anna waves his apologies off, chuckling. “You’re fine, Castiel, don’t worry. I believe the topic of the meeting might be best left to him to present, though. Do you have time to come meet with him before you finish for the day?”

Castiel would happily stay _past_ when he’s supposed to be going home, but he doesn’t say that—instead, he just nods, standing from his chair in a slightly shellshocked manner. “I—absolutely,” he says, and as he follows Anna up the stairs and through the museum to where the important executives have their offices, he can’t help but wish he’d put more effort into his presentation this morning. To have worn a tie, or at the very least, a nicer shirt. As it is, he barely has time to fix the mess his hair has become throughout the day before Anna is knocking on Dr. Adler’s door and they’re being admitted in.

Dr. Zachariah Adler is someone Castiel has only ever heard of—in articles, or in information about the museum, or by word of mouth with the other staff. He’s a cunning businessman, dedicated to achieving excellence and good status for both himself and the museum, and while he may not be the most amiable person, it’s his guidance that has made the museum the internationally recognized institute that it is today. Whatever his reason for calling Castiel in to see him today, Castiel is excited to have this opportunity to meet him.

“Ah, Mr. Novak, Ms. Milton!” Dr. Adler stands as they enter, greeting them with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and a handshake that is uncomfortably strong. “Take a seat, please. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Novak—I hear you’ve been doing excellent work as a registrar.”

“Thank you, sir,” Castiel says, taking a seat. He still can’t quite believe that this is happening—to still be so young, but to already be noticed for his work by the director? It’s a dream come true.

Anna sits down next to him, and Dr. Adler lowers himself back into the chair behind his grand oak desk, resting his folded hands on the wood.

“I’ve been looking over the work and files of the registrars recently and you stood out to me, Castiel. You’re only twenty-four, but you graduated with the highest distinction from Stanford, and were immediately offered an internship here. Your work ethic is impressive, from what I’ve seen in your files.”

“Thank you,” is all Castiel can say again, because he never expected to be singled out for his work, not when the other registrars in his department have much more experience and just as much raw talent for their job.

Dr. Adler smiles and leans back in his chair.

“You are very welcome. I didn’t call you up here just to praise you, however. As the museum grows, our staff needs to be expanded to fit the needs of the institution. I’m concerned that with the increased workload, the duties of Collections Manager may be too much for Ms. Milton to handle on her own. As such, I will be promoting you to the role of assistant Collections Manager, effective immediately.”

It takes a few seconds for the information to sink in. Castiel’s ears feel as though they’re ringing, and he can’t wrap his head around Adler’s words—promoted? Assistant Collections Manager?

Dr. Adler is watching him, a smirk on his lips like he knows the impact that his decision is having on Castiel. “I—thank you, I wasn’t expecting this at all, thank you, sir,” he stammers out.

Adler waves a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing, Castiel. Someone of your talent and status shouldn’t be passed over and left to moulder away in the museum basement. That will be all for today, Ms. Milton will be in charge of your training for your new position but will, of course, be reporting to me.”

They all stand, and Anna is smiling, clearly happy for him with the news of this promotion, but something in Adler’s words is catching in Castiel’s brain.

 _Status_.

He’s not quite sure what Dr. Adler had meant by that, but he can take a guess, and he’d bet good money on it having something to do with the black mark he bears on his skin, and the ‘Dominant’ lettered next to his gender on his official records. He doesn’t really want to have his fears confirmed, so he turns to follow Anna out, the two of them accompanied to the door by Adler.

Anna leaves a few steps ahead of Castiel, but before he can follow her out the door, Dr. Adler grabs him by the wrist, halting his progress. “I know it’s demeaning for someone of our status to work under a sub,” he says quietly, close enough to Castiel’s ear for him to feel the damp condensation of his breath, “but you know how it is—quotas to be filled and all that jazz. Don’t you worry, though. I’ll sort it out soon, and you’ll get the role that a promising young Dom like you deserves. Just be patient.”

He winks, and Castiel feels his stomach curdle. It’s all he can do to give a shaky nod and hurry out of the office before he throws up on Adler’s shoes.

Anna meets him outside, beaming from ear to ear. “Congratulations, Castiel! I had a suspicion that that was what that meeting was about, but I didn’t want to let you know earlier in case I was wrong. I’m so looking forward to working with you!”

Castiel can barely drag his gaze up to her eyes—instead, he’s focused on the silver bangles around her left wrist, and the thick black line that encircles it just above. A Dom, answering directly to a sub. Castiel had known that there were people in the world who still believed that submissives don’t belong in roles of leadership or power—hell, he’d been _raised_ by one of them—but he’d thought he escaped it when he’d moved away from his mother. Now, to be experiencing it at his job, to be _profiting_ off it…

He feels sick. 

“Me too,” he says weakly. He feels pale. Unsteady. “I… I don’t think I’m feeling that well. I’m going to go clear up my desk and head home—can we talk more tomorrow?”

Anna’s expression morphs into one of concern. “Of course, Castiel. Do you want me to walk you back down to the basement?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, thank you. I’ll be okay.”

Anna gives him a look like she doesn’t quite believe him—which is fair enough—but relents. “Alright. I’ll come find you bright and early tomorrow, though, so we can get started with teaching you your new role.”

Castiel’s stomach roils again, but he forces a smile. “Sounds good,” he says, and then before she can say anything else, adds on, “See you tomorrow!” It’s probably rude for him to disappear so quickly after learning of his new position, but his hands are shaking and he needs to get away.

The basement, once he makes it back to his desk, is cool and quiet and helps to calm Castiel. He still feels unsettled by what Adler had said to him, but at least he’s alone down here and he doesn’t have to feel the weight of anyone’s eyes on him. This is his space, and _he_ controls it, not anybody else. Just to soothe his mind, he double-checks all his cataloguing work for the day before methodically closing every tab he has open and shutting down his computer. His work station gets tidied back to exactly how it was this morning when he arrived, and with that, the sick feeling starts to dissipate.

It still lingers in the back of his mind, of course, but for now, he’s trying his best not to think about it at all.

On his way out of the building, he does his best to avoid being pulled into small talk with someone—he’s not entirely sure how fast the gossip mill works here, having never partaken in any gossip himself, but he doesn’t really feel like talking about his promotion with anybody just yet. Not until he’s reconciled it and all its less-than-pleasant details with himself.

God, he’s been so _happy_ to think that he was hard-working and worthy enough to be promoted, but now Adler’s words have left him wondering just how much of it was due to his work ethic and how much was because of his biology.

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

Somehow, he makes it out of the museum uninterrupted, then to the subway, and then he’s standing in front of his apartment door, the last twenty minute a haze that he struggles to quite grasp. He’s running on autopilot, he knows, but he’s not sure whether that’s a good thing, or if he should try to pull himself back to the present.

The books would know—the ones he’d tried to read when he’d started feeling like this, so tense and tightly wound sometimes. Surely someone out there knew, understood, had put pen to paper about it. So he’d sought the help of words, of those who know their field, and they had said:

_It is common for the unattached Dominant to experience mood swings, anxiety, depression, and other symptoms of a withdrawal. Studies have shown that the most common solution to combat a withdrawal is to become involved with a submissive, or to fulfil the biologically Dominant part that is being ignored in some way._

After that, Castiel hadn’t tried reading any more books. He knows what they’ll say.

Instead, he’s figured out what works for himself. He leaves his bag by the door and kicks off his shoes, then heads straight to the bathroom. A shower always helps to calm him, and as he stands under the water, he pictures the stresses of the day—and that conversation with Adler—washing away. Slipping off his skin and swirling down the drain, never to be seen again.

_“The role that a promising young Dom like you deserves.”_

It doesn’t work as well as he’d hoped.

No matter—he’s used to that. Some evenings, the itch under his skin is worse than usual, and it doesn’t always subside with the first thing he tries. This feels less like tightly-wound tension and more of a jittery anxiety that squeezes around his chest, but hopefully his usual tricks will still apply.

Castiel steps out of the shower and towels himself dry, trying to give his mark nothing more than a cursory swipe, even though the sight of it on his skin has his stomach churning nauseously. He dresses himself in a pair of boxers and a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt—out of sight, out of mind, right?—and then heads back out into his apartment.

The sight of the greenery of his plants helps to settle his mind a little, and he spends ten minutes meticulously checking on each one of them. They’re all looking good, apart from the spider plant on his kitchen bench, the tips of whose leaves have turned slightly brown. He resolves to check on it more often—it was the first one he ever bought and he doesn’t want it dying on him now.

With all his plants checked, Castiel moves onto his next option: cleaning. Usually, cleaning his apartment is something that helps him to settle his mind. Organization or cleaning of any kind is good, he’s found, but there’s just something so satisfying about having his apartment neat and presentable that satisfies some deep-down part of him.

Of course, this job used to be easier back when Inias was still living with him. Inias isn’t a messy person by any standards, but it had been so much easier to clean and tidy the apartment when there had been two people living in it. Now, it’s only Castiel’s stuff. Castiel’s dishes to clean, Castiel’s books to tidy, Castiel’s cooking messes to scrub off the kitchen.

Still, it helps. He works with a single-minded focus that he usually reserves for museum relics, scrubbing and cleaning and mopping until every surface of his apartment gleams. After that, he washes the dishes that he’s used today—which, there only being one of him, isn’t many—and then methodically dries and stores them away.

The sun is starting to set outside now, blue-black shadows creeping into Castiel’s apartment and enveloping it. It’s getting late, but the unsettled jitteriness still remains.

He flicks the lights on, illuminating the room once again, and keeps working.

An hour later, and just about everything in the apartment has been cleaned. Every surface shines, the carpeted areas almost look better than the day they were installed, and every object has been either put back in its rightful home or meticulously tidied in its place. He didn’t touch Inias’s room, because even though it’s been a month since he moved out, it still feels weird to go in there and tidy.

Bur even without cleaning the second bedroom, his deep clean seems to have been enough to satisfy his brain; his anxiety feels as though it’s abated. What it’s left in its place is a deep-seated weariness, and Castiel sinks onto the couch with a sigh. It’s almost 8pm, and now that he’s spent the last two hours cleaning his apartment, the urge to cook dinner and mess everything up again is incredibly low.

Instead, he reaches for his phone, exactly where he left it on the coffee table several hours ago, and unlocks it.

 _No new messages_.

He knows that he isn’t the most social person, but that fact seems to be magnified now that he’s living by himself. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, then scrubs a hand over his face and opens up his message thread with Inias.

_> > I know it’s late, but are you available? I’ve had… a day._

Castiel waits for a reply, and waits some more, staring tiredly at the blank TV on the opposite wall while he waits for his phone to buzz. In the end, he gives up and calls the local Thai restaurant to order some takeout, and when he ends the call, he has a message from his friend.

_< < Sorry, work has been kicking my ass and I promised I’d spend tonight at home with Hannah. Do you want to catch up for lunch tomorrow instead?_

It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. Tonight will just have to be for himself and his Thai food.

_> > Sure. I’ll meet you at the usual place at 12._

Inias texts back a thumbs up and a smiley face, which brightens Castiel’s mood a little. It gives him enough energy to get up off the couch and turn on the TV, as well as grab his laptop out of his work bag. Of course, as soon as he settles back down on the couch and makes himself comfortable, a knock on the front door signals the arrival of his dinner, and he hauls himself back up with a quiet grumble.

Weird mood or not, he makes sure to be polite to the delivery guy and tip him well, taking his bag of food with a genuine expression of gratitude because he had not realized quite how hungry he was until he smelled it. _Now_ , he can settle in for the night, and he grabs a fork on his way back to the couch, not bothering with a plate. He just doesn’t have the energy for that right now.

The pad thai tastes incredible, and Castiel devours it while idly watching whatever happens to be on TV—right now it seems to be a documentary about some tattoo shop in Los Angeles, and even though Castiel has never really thought that much about tattoos before, he has to admit that the pieces of artwork he sees being created are quite beautiful. Once he’s finished all of his takeout, he pulls his laptop into his lap—usually after dinner he’ll brush up on recent journal articles that take his fancy, or catch up on the news, or just browse YouTube if he’s feeling particularly lazy.

Instead of opening his laptop and shifting his attention, though, he finds that he’s been thoroughly pulled into the documentary. Each one of the tattoos that the show presents is a beautiful work of art, and even if Castiel wouldn’t want some of the styles on his own body, he can appreciate their aesthetic appeal.

The main artist’s designation doesn’t catch his eye until he sees her actually tattooing someone, and catches sight of the stripe running down her forearm. He’d been so distracted by all the other designs on her sleeve that the mark doesn’t stand out anywhere near as much, even if the way her tattoos are designed highlight and complement her mark.

It gives him pause. Usually, he’s very quick at noticing people’s designations; since it’s something he focuses so strongly on with himself, it’s hard not to extend it to other people as well, to notice if they’re Dominant or submissive or unpresented.

But with this woman… he hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t even thought to look.

His breath catches in his throat.

All these years, Castiel has been so self-conscious about his Dom mark. He goes to lengths to hide it, even in the heat of the summer, because the fewer people know about his presentation, the better. He’s suffered through so many months of long sleeves just because he hates seeing his mark, hates _other people_ seeing his mark, but if there was some way to hide it in plain sight…

The whole way through the ending of the documentary, Castiel can’t stop staring at the artist’s arm and the colourful ink that adorns the skin around her mark. When it ends, he reaches for the remote and switches off the TV, then sits and stares into space for a few minutes. Thinking. Turning his thoughts over and over in his head.

He’s never really considered ever getting a tattoo—has never fully seen the appeal—but with this new possibility that may have presented itself…

Castiel reaches for his laptop and powers it up.

He’s riding the wave of his new idea now when he googles ‘nearby tattoo artists’. Realistically, he should think about this decision more, make sure it’s actually something he wants to do and can commit to, but after his conversation with Adler today and the way he’s been feeling since, there’s no hesitation.

As it turns out, ‘nearby tattoo artists’ brings up a lot of results. One by one, Castiel combs through them, checking out portfolios and getting a gauge on prices. If he wants something similar to the artist from the documentary, big and complex enough to distract from his mark, it won’t be cheap, but he gets a good salary from the museum and he’s more than willing to pay whatever it takes.

Many of the work he sees is beautiful, and the artists are clearly talented, but they’re just not quite… _right_. Not that he knows exactly what he’s looking for, but he trusts that he’ll know it when he sees it, and he hasn’t seen it yet. The styles are too realistic, or too colourful, or just not quite clean enough for what Castiel is after.

And then he clicks onto the website for ‘Harvelle Ink’ and opens an artist portfolio at random, and finds exactly what he’s been searching for.

This artist has a variety of works, some in brilliant colour and some in stunning, complementary black and white, but all of them are beautiful and each one tells some kind of story. The art itself is beautifully executed, and Castiel can’t stop staring as he scrolls down the page, taking in every single tattoo this artist has to show. He’s never considered getting a tattoo now, and it’s still a little crazy to think about having someone else’s artwork on his skin, but Castiel knows instinctively that if he wants anyone tattooing him, it’s this artist.

When he scrolls back up to the top, he sees that the artist’s name is Dean, and that he has an Instagram account. Castiel can’t help but click on it, eager to see what else this ‘Dean’ has to show, and he’s not disappointed. There are hundreds of photographs on here, each one of a tattoo Dean has completed, each one just as stunning as the others he’s seen. He has a preference for some designs, of course, and finds himself completely besotted by a detailed geometric design on someone’s bicep—all black and white and sharp, clear lines.

This is the artist he wants. He’s never been so sure of anything since he packed his bags at the age of eighteen and got on a flight to San Francisco.

Up the top of the account is a short bio that reads: _Dean Winchester, 25, artist at Harvelle Ink. Enquiries at dwinchester@harvelleink.net_. Castiel doesn’t hesitate; he copies the email address, logs into his personal account, opens up a new email and starts typing.

_Dear Mr. Winchester._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the wait! I'm juggling a bunch of different projects at the moment, and real life/uni is kicking my ass, so getting the time and energy to actually finish this chapter in amongst everything else has been A Lot. Thank you for your patience, and I hope y'all enjoy this new chapter!
> 
> ETA: This chapter now has [art](http://https://winchester-reload.tumblr.com/post/188345952850/a-commission-for-the-absolutely-wonderful) by the absolutely amazing [winchester-reload](http://winchester-reload.tumblr.com)!

“You’re doing _what_?”

Castiel looks down at the linoleum table top beside his coffee and sighs. Was it too much to ask for this conversation to go smoothly? “I’m getting a tattoo, Inias. You didn’t hear me the first time?”

“No, I heard you.” His friend makes a show of shaking his head. “I just… it wasn’t what I expected you to open with when I saw you today, that’s all. It doesn’t seem very _you_.”

Not very _him_.

Castiel resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, and instead levels his friend with an unimpressed look. “And what makes it ‘not very me’? I’m an adult, I’m perfectly capable of making decisions like this. Hell, I’m even capable of surprising you every once in a while.” There’s a slightly bitter tone to his voice that he hadn’t intended, and he does feel a bit bad when Inias raises his hands placatingly.

“Hey, man, I’m just surprised, is all. You’ve never mentioned wanting to get a tattoo before, why the sudden change?”

Why the sudden change indeed? If only it was that simple to answer. Castiel shrugs one shoulder, idly spinning his coffee mug between his fingers on the linoleum. “I’m sick of having to hide it,” he admits. “The idea of being able to hide it in plain sight, or at least distract from it, is appealing to say the least.”

Inias doesn’t have to ask—he’s known Castiel long enough to know what he’s referring to. The corners of his mouth pull down in a sympathetic expression. “So that’s why you’re doing this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely towards Castiel’s arm where it’s hidden beneath the sleeve of his trench coat. “To hide… you know what?”

Castiel forces his fingers to unclench from around the mug, and nods.

“I guess I get it, then,” Inias says quietly. He leans back in his chair, watching Castiel with a gaze that knows him too well. “Well, I don’t get it, but. You know what I mean. And if you think this’ll help make you happier, then I’m all for it.”

The tension that Cas hadn’t realized he was carrying abates slightly at Inias’s words, a loosening of his muscles and a lightening of his soul. “You mean that?” he asks quietly, tilting his head. Inias simply laughs—that warm, friendly, light sound that has lifted Castiel’s spirits countless times before.

“Of course, you idiot. I’m only here to stop you from making wild decisions that are poorly thought through. This one seems wild but calculated, so I’m okay with it.” He leans forwards, props his forearms on the table. “What were you thinking of getting?”

Castiel feels his face flush. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? When people go to get a tattoo, they have a clear image of what they want in their mind—at least, that’s what the show on TV had told him. But Castiel… Castiel is different.

“I don’t know,” he admits, looking down into the depths of his half-finished coffee. “I’ve been thinking about it, but… I’m still not sure.”

Inias just snorts, and Castiel doesn’t even need to look up to know the fondly exasperated face his friend is making right now—he’s seen it enough times. “Of course you’d book an appointment with a tattoo artist without even knowing what you want,” he says, amused. “Hopefully your guy is half-decent, and he’ll be able to come up with something you like. If it’s terrible, I’ll still be a good friend and lend you money for laser removal.”

Castiel levels a half-hearted glare at his friend, but he can’t keep up the pretense for very long. “He’s _really_ good,” he says quietly. In the week since he sent the email, he can’t count the number of times he’s just browsed deeper and deeper through his Instagram. “That’s why I chose him. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas.”

The silence stretches out, with Inias giving him a _look_ that he can’t quite put his finger on. Castiel sips his coffee—lukewarm now, annoyingly—and waits for his friend to speak, until he can’t bear it any longer. “What?”

Inias’s lips twitch up into a smile. “You’re really serious about this. And it’s going to make you happy. I can’t remember the last time I saw you like this—really _excited_ about something that’s not work. It’s cool.”

It’s been hard to get excited about his work at the moment—Anna is awesome and working under her is a dream come true, but it’s still soured by Adler’s parting remarks. Inias wouldn’t understand, though, so Cas hasn’t told him about that part, just the promotion.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly, turning Inias’s words over in his head. “I guess you’re right.”

The days pass, and Castiel emails back and forth with Dean a few times. Dean asks about his life, his passions, what kind of aesthetic he’s fond of and how much space he wants the tattoo to cover. Some of the questions he has answers for, and others less so, but Dean is always kind and understanding, and he seems like the kind of person that Castiel would have no problem getting along with in real life.

Which is good, because when Dean tells him that he has a design outlined, he also says that it will take more than one session to complete, and if they’re going to be spending that long together, Castiel wants to make sure it’s with someone he can at least tolerate.

Once the proposed design is complete (or so Dean says, since Castiel won’t see it until the day of his appointment), he doesn’t hear from the artist again, and so he’s left to his own thoughts and anticipation once more.

While he waits, he tries to distract himself. He goes running, does yoga, looks after his plants and tries to keep himself from buying anymore because Inias already gives him enough shit about one day replacing him with a topiary version. With each day that he spends at work, he gets more comfortable working with Anna, as long as he can forget about Adler and his bigotry, and throwing himself into learning his new role certainly helps him to distract himself from the thrumming anticipation that lingers in his mind each time he thinks about his ever nearing appointment with Dean Winchester.

Every morning, when Castiel dresses himself, he still reaches for the long-sleeved shirts, the safety nets made of cotton and canvas, but he starts to hope for a time when he won’t second-guess himself every time he puts on a t-shirt. He doesn’t _want_ to be achingly aware of his Dom mark for every second that he’s in public. He doesn’t want that to be the first thing people notice about him.

Hopefully soon that can become a reality.

On the morning of the appointment, he wakes up an hour before his alarm and with nervous butterflies in his stomach. The anticipation, the nervousness, thrums beneath his skin and manifests itself in an agitation and hyperawareness that just won’t settle. Castiel meditates and does yoga in an attempt to calm his mind, but this morning it only works to a certain degree. He should have expected that, really—by this point, there’s not much he can do but ride it out and hope that today goes smoothly.

After he’s eaten breakfast, he returns to his bedroom and spends five minutes just staring at his closet. Dean had told him to wear something that exposed most of his arm, and unless Castiel wants to be totally shirtless in front of a stranger for several hours, he should probably heed the advice.

Which leads him to his dilemma. _This is the last time people are going to notice_ , he tells himself. Once he has his tattoo, people won’t look at his mark any more, like it’s a symbol of status and power. He just wants it to blend in with the ink and disappear.

In the end, he pulls out an old tank top that might be one of Inias’s that migrated into the back of Castiel’s closet, because he’s pretty sure that he’s never voluntarily bought anything so sleeveless. It feels weird to be putting it on, and as he finishes the rest of his morning routine, he tries to ignore the black mark that always seems to be lingering on the edge of his vision.

On his way out of his apartment, he pauses, staring down at it, then grabs a jacket off one of the hooks by the door before he leaves.

Harvelle Ink is a ways away from Castiel’s apartment—not too far away that he can’t walk, but far enough to make him _wish_ that he had a car while he’s sweating away under his jacket. He lives too close to the middle of the city for it to do much good, though, and his money is better spent in other places. Besides, even if it is a little uncomfortably warm, the walk is proving to be a reasonable distraction from the nerves that have settled themselves in his stomach.

Before he knows it, he’s standing in the exact spot that his phone has been directing to, staring up at the colourful sign that reads: Harvelle Ink. Anticipation and nervousness simmer beneath his skin as he lifts his hand to the door.

This is an impulse decision that could change his life, and god, he hopes it does.

Heart in his throat, he presses his hand against the glass and pushes.

Inside, the studio is all light and colour. The frosted glass windows in the front of the shop let the sunlight in from outside but keep it private and cozy, and Castiel takes a second to admire the mural on the wall above the front desk. The painted bird stretches its wings across the plaster, regal and beautiful.

“Hey! Can I help you?”

Castiel shifts his attention to the young woman who walks out of the shop’s back area, of which he can just see glimpses of workstations and what he assumes are tattoo chairs. She’s slim and blonde and unpresented, and carries herself with a confident, take-no-shit attitude that Castiel immediately likes.

“I’m here for an appointment with Dean Winchester?” he hedges, because he has to assume that this lady is _not_ the same person he’s been emailing. Then again, considering his own odd name, he’s not really in any position to judge.

The woman slides behind the desk and leans down to check the computer, then looks up at Castiel with a grin. “Castiel, right? Dean’s just getting himself set up now, give him a few minutes and he’ll be out to introduce himself. I’m Jo—Harvelle, my mom owns this place. Dean’s one of our artists—I think you’re gonna love the piece he’s designed for you today. Is this your first tattoo?”

Somehow, the barrage of information doesn’t prove too overwhelming. It might have something to do with the drawl of Jo’s voice, or the easygoing that stays in place while she talks, but either way, Castiel feels himself smile and relax just a little bit. “It is my first, yes,” he tells her, and for the first time, the look of excitement on Jo’s face brings with the confession more exhilaration than it does nervousness.

“That’s awesome,” she says, leaning her forearms on the desk. One arm is covered with black and white tattoos that perfectly accentuate her complexion and, Castiel suspects, the badassery lurking below the laidback attitude. She grins, and winks at him conspiringly. “You never forget your first.”

“Jo! Are you harassing my client out there?”

The voice is deep and teasing and Castiel is instantly curious to meet the man it is attached to. Jo’s grin widens conspiratorially, and she turns her head towards the back room, directing her response away from Castiel. “Me? I would never! Who do you think I am?” she calls back, her words laced with mischief. Castiel can’t help but smile—he likes her.

The hidden person—Dean, he has to assume, this magical Dean with the artistic gift who Castiel is trusting with his tattoo—laughs. It’s a laugh that makes Castiel want to grin, to join in, to be in on whatever joke it is that Dean is laughing at. “Yeah, right,” comes the voice, “I know you too well, Joanna Beth.”

Jo’s expression morphs into a playful scowl, but whatever her retaliation is, Castiel doesn’t hear it, because it’s at that point that his artist walks out of the back room, and everything else around them feels like it falls away.

Dean is tall and tanned, wearing a loose flannel over a band t-shirt that Inias would know but Castiel has no clue about. Ink peeks out from beneath his sleeves and the collars of his shirts, but what captivates Castiel is his face; pink lips, cheekbones dusted with freckles, green eyes that, when Castiel meets them, are warm and sparkling with playfulness. “You must be Castiel,” he says, reaching out a hand, and Castiel has never been this awestruck by anyone in his entire life.

“That’s me,” Castiel replies, as he reaches out to take Dean’s hand, because what else can he say? Dean’s hand is warm and relaxed as they shake, and he misses his touch immediately when they let go. “And you’re Dean?”

“In the flesh.” Dean’s grin is wide and infectious, and Castiel doesn’t miss the onceover he gets, Dean’s gaze raking from his messy hair all the way down to his feet. Does he like what he sees? Right now, Castiel can’t tell. “I hope Jo hasn’t been giving you too much trouble. You’re in good hands now, don’t you worry.”

Jo scoffs indignantly from her spot behind the desk, and Dean flips her the middle finger in a way that is _so_ sibling-like that it makes Castiel smile. “Come on through, Cas,” Dean says with a tilt of his head towards the back room, and the nickname is _doing things_ for Castiel already, a shiver dancing along his spine.

He follows Dean through the doorway to the back area—spacious and brightly lit, with plenty of room between the handful of tattooing stations. Between the inviting, comfortable space and Dean’s laidback attitude (not to mention his sheer beauty), Castiel can feel himself relaxing. It’s a good feeling, and even though he still hasn’t seen the tattoo he’s getting, he’s feeling a lot better about his spur of the moment idea.

“So,” Dean says as he leads them over to the far station, “I thought about everything you told me about yourself over the email, and the area you wanted the tattoo to cover, and I made up a design for you. It’s not set in stone, we can change stuff if you’re not one hundred percent happy with it, but…” He takes a seat at the desk nearby and motions at the other stool for Castiel to take a seat, then pulls out a sheet of paper and slides it across the tabletop. “I hope you like it.”

Castiel takes his seat and pulls the paper towards him with his fingertips, suddenly nervous again. What if he hates it? What if Dean isn’t as talented as his social media had made him seem? His heart is in his throat as he lets himself look at the design for the first time.

It’s a drawing of an arm, clearly as close to scale as Dean could get it, with a space in the middle of the forearm for where Castiel’s mark will fit—if only it were possible to ink over it, but since that’s not the case, Dean has done the second best thing.

The lower forearm is covered in a geometric honeycomb pattern, with a stylized dandelion design right above that transitions into dark black ink and—

“Is that the flower of life?” he asks, tracing his fingertips lightly over the design on the drawing’s elbow. Dean leans in closer and grins, and suddenly it’s become much more difficult for Castiel to focus. 

“It is!” The look Dean gives him is equal parts impressed and excited. “I wanted it to still be a bit nature-related, since you told me about all your plants and the documentaries you watch and how you’d want to have a garden once you move into your own house, but it’s also symbolic and not too obvious, because you’re used to working with all those artefacts and cool ancient stuff, right?”

Castiel can’t contain his smile. “That’s right, I do work with all that ‘cool ancient stuff,’” he replies, and there’s a hint of teasing that he can’t keep out of his voice, because Dean is already getting under his skin, damn it. At least, if the blush that colours Dean’s cheeks is anything to go by, the feeling goes both ways. “I love it, though, Dean.” He runs his fingers over the three bands encircling the bicep, then sits back and just admires the whole thing. “It’s beautiful.” And it’s exactly the style that he’d loved in Dean’s previous works; perfect for distracting from his mark, and giving people something _beautiful_ to look at instead.

Dean’s cheeks blush darker, and he takes the drawing back, surveying it with a critical eye. “Yeah?” he asks, and there’s barely-concealed pride in his voice. “I can change stuff if you want it changed, it’s no big deal.”

There’s no way he wants any of it changed. “It’s absolutely fine as it is,” he insists, and before he can really think about what he’s doing, he reaches out and puts his hand over Dean’s. Whatever he was going to say next disappears from his mind, because again, Dean’s hand is warm and strong beneath Castiel’s, and even touching him like this is sending electricity sparking across Cas’s skin.

Dean swallows, his green eyes locked onto Castiel’s, and then clears his throat. “I—okay,” he says, and his voice is softer than it has been so far. “I won’t change it, then. Give me a few to put it on some transfer paper, and then we can get started.”

Even though he’s finished talking, Dean doesn’t remove his hand until Castiel does, the two of them just watching each other for several loaded moments before Cas pulls his hand back into his lap.

Dean takes the drawing away, and Castiel hears him and Jo talking for a minute, their voices pitched too low for him to make out the words clearly—besides, he’s too polite to eavesdrop like that. Instead, he waits for his artist to return, trying to occupy himself by browsing his phone so that he can’t think too hard about… whatever _that_ was.

No matter how much he tries, though, he can’t shake the feeling lingering under his skin and buzzing in the back of his skull. Can’t forget how Dean had _looked_ at him.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for Dean to return—tries resolutely not to check the time as he waits—but eventually the artist makes a reappearance, paper in hand and his laidback countenance back in place. “Sorry about the wait,” he says, sitting back down on his stool and sliding across to the work station where the inks and tattoo gun are set up and ready to go. Castiel’s heart kicks up a couple of notches. _This is really happening_.

“I’ll get you to take a seat on the chair,” Dean tells him as he pulls on a pair of black gloves and gets himself organized. “Because this is your first tattoo, I don’t wanna take any risks with it, so if it’s okay with you, we’ll split it into two sessions. I’ll do a large portion of it today, and then we can book in a time next week to get it all finished off. Sound good?”

He gets to spend more than just today with Dean? “Sounds great,” he says, trying not to come across as too overly excited, but just the thought of seeing Dean again has butterflies dancing in his stomach.

Dean smiles, relaxed and easy, as Castiel situates himself in the chair and gets comfortable. “Awesome. That’ll give us time to take this session slow. You never know how you’re gonna handle the pain until you’ve had your first tattoo—but I expect you’ll be alright. Now, can we get that jacket off so that I can see what I’m working with?”

_Fuck_. Castiel tries to steady the nerves that bubble up inside him, gathering in his fingertips and dancing in jitters across his skin. _Dean already knows you’re a Dom_ , he tells himself. _You talked about it in your emails. This isn’t new_.

But no matter how he rationalizes it, it’s still terrifying.

He takes a deep breath, aware of Dean’s eyes on him, watching and patient, then sits up and pulls off his jacket.

In the cool air of the studio, he feels way too exposed, the entirety of his arms and shoulders bared to Dean’s gaze. He knows he looks good—the yoga and running helps with that—but it’s not that aspect of his appearance that’s responsible for the anxious roiling of his stomach. His mark stands out even against his tanned skin, and he tries to resist the instinctive urge to put his hand over it, to cover it, to do whatever he can to prevent Dean from seeing the truth about what he is for the first time.

But when he looks up, Dean isn’t looking at his mark. He’s looking into Castiel’s eyes, lips curled up into a half-smile, totally relaxed. “You okay?” he asks, his voice calm, in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s making this reveal a big deal.

_Is_ he okay? He’s so close to reaching his goal, to hiding his mark in plain sight so that (hopefully) he never has to feel self-conscious about displaying it again. And even though Dean knows something is up, he’s not making a big deal about it, except to check in. He likes Dean. He can _trust_ Dean.

“Yeah,” he says on an exhale, and while it doesn’t magically banish all his nervousness, it loosens the tension in his shoulders and across his chest just a little bit, and that’s enough.

“Awesome,” Dean says, and the half-smile morphs into a full smile. “For what it’s worth, I think the tank top is a good look on you. You’ve got nice arms, dude.”

It’s said in a conversational tone, as he reaches for the transfer paper and slides his stool closer to Castiel, but there’s something _else_ to it that Castiel barely catches. Is Dean flirting with him? He’s so out of practice that he can’t be sure, but he gives Dean a tentative smile anyway. Surely someone as beautiful and talented and charismatic as Dean wouldn’t be interested in Castiel, but there’s no harm in testing the waters and being polite, so he says; “Thank you. I find that yoga helps me to unwind when I’m feeling stressed, and I suppose the muscle tone is a fortunate bonus.”

Dean’s hands, as they position Castiel’s arm on the armrest of the chair, are steady and careful. “That’s really cool,” he says. Even though he’s concentrated on his work, on spreading a gel over the skin of Castiel’s forearm and positioning the stencil just right, there’s an attentiveness to his voice that signals that he’s paying attention. “So I guess you’re super strong and bendy and stuff, right? My brother’s into fitness stuff like that, but I’m just not flexible enough.” He laughs self-deprecatingly as he smooths the paper over Castiel’s skin and presses it down.

The paper and the gloves that separate them are a nuisance when all Castiel wants is to feel Dean’s touch once more, but instead he focuses on the man’s voice, his words. “You don’t need to be flexible to start,” he points out, giving a tiny shrug of the shoulder not attached to the arm Dean’s currently working with. “I know I certainly wasn’t. But I wanted something that I could do in private, and I was stubborn enough that I didn’t give up even when it kicked my ass, so… I ended up enjoying it.”

From here, he can see the smile on Dean’s lips, even as his brows crease with the concentration required for applying the stencil. It’s a few moments before he replies. “Stubborn, huh? I can relate to that. Maybe I should give yoga a go sometime then—it might keep me from fucking up my back, what with the shitty posture I have here all day.” He sits up, then, straightens out his back and gently peels the transfer paper off Castiel’s arm to reveal the stencil underneath. “There you go, give it one last check before we commit to it.”

Castiel looks down at his bare arm, inked with purple lines. They fit neatly around his mark, because as much as he wishes it were possible for them to tattoo all the way over it, it’s impossible for the skin directly next to it to hold any ink. Instead, Dean’s design camouflages it tastefully, without being too glaringly obvious about it.

“It’s perfect,” he murmurs. “You’ve done an incredible job.” For a few more moments, he simply stares at it, before he looks up to meet Dean’s eyes once more.

In the split second before Dean catches himself, he finds the man staring, lips slightly parted, eyes shining with some unreadable emotion that is gone too quickly for Castiel to put a name to. Dean clears his throat and looks away, leaving Castiel to wonder what he’d done to merit being watched with such intensity.

“I’m glad you like it,” Dean says, meeting Castiel’s gaze once more with a smile that is a little bit forced—not in a bad way, but in the way that betrays the fact that his real emotions are hiding just beneath the surface. Dean is beautiful and intriguing, and Castiel really, really hopes that his gut is correct and that Dean has indeed been flirting with him.

As if on cue, Dean pats Cas’s arm lightly, and his smile widens into an excited grin. “Alright, shall we get started?”

Castiel inhales, holds his breath, and then nods.

The tattoo is, surprisingly, not too bad. It hurts, sure, but Castiel has always had a high tolerance for physical pain. It’s never affected him as strongly as emotional pain, and so it’s easy to lie there and accept the stinging of Dean’s tattoo gun.

They make easy conversation as he works, talking about Castiel’s job, his hobbies, his years at college. Dean’s little brother is studying law at Stanford right now, and his face lights up every time he talks about him, like he’s so proud that he can’t possibly contain it. It’s sweet and endearing, and he’s also becoming more certain that Dean is flirting with him from the way he smiles and winks and comments on what Castiel is saying. 

It hadn’t been something he’d been aware was missing from his daily life, but he realizes very quickly that it’s nice to feel desired. Wanted.

And so he flirts back, in his own clumsy, out-of-practice way.

He asks about Dean’s interests, smiles when they make eye contact, tries not to let himself be distracted by the touch of his gloved hands. Dean is beautiful and witty and clever, and Castiel had not expected to be feeling so head over heels for his tattoo artist, but here he is, very slowly working up the courage to ask Dean out to a bar or a movie or _anything_ once this session is done.

And then they take a quick break, and Dean stretches, takes off his gloves and pulls off his flannel so that he’s only in the band t-shirt beneath.

On his left forearm is the thick encircling band of a sub.

And just like that, Castiel freezes.

_Dean is a sub_. All this time, he’s been flirting with, _interested in_ , someone he thought was unpresented. Someone he would be able to be involved with without being afraid of himself, his nature, everything inherently negative that he associates with being a Dom. But that’s not the case, because Dean is a _sub_.

Dean settles back onto his chair, and Castiel can’t stop staring at his arm. The upper part of his arm is covered in colourful ink that peeks out from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt, but his forearm is bare apart from that mark, and so of course Dean, when he turns back to Castiel and pulls on a new pair of gloves, notices him looking.

“You okay, Cas?”

Castiel had told Dean, over their emails, that he’d wanted a tattoo that incorporated his mark and made it a little less visible, but he hadn’t said _why_ —that’s something only Inias knows, a broken confession during one of Castiel’s lowest lows.

He can’t date Dean. And he can’t tell him why.

“Yeah,” he says, even though he can feel his throat closing up with the intensity of the emotions that are washing over him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Dean eyes him skeptically, but when Castiel doesn’t elaborate, seems to acknowledge that that’s all he’s getting. Instead, he says, “You good to keep going?”

Castiel nods—please, just let this be over with—and Dean picks up the tattoo gun once more.

They still talk, and Dean makes an effort to draw him back into the conversations they were having earlier, the easy back-and-forth, but Castiel just… can’t. He can’t lead Dean on, not when he knows that nothing can ever happen between them. To a sub, his touch is poison, and he knows that from firsthand experience.

He won’t let it happen to Dean.

By the time the session is finished, Dean seems quieter, a little crestfallen. When he sits back and stretches, he watches Castiel for a long moment, with a gaze that seems to pierce through Castiel’s defenses. The silence stretches out between them; to break it, Castiel looks down at his arm, and his breath catches.

He’d been trying not to watch, because the way Dean works and the concentrated focus on his face is too beautiful for words, so instead he’d been staring at the ceiling for most of the time. Now, though, when he finally lets himself see the work Dean has done for the first time…

It’s beautiful.

The honeycomb pattern encompasses the bottom half of his forearm, the pattern of it varied and intriguing and exactly what Castiel had wanted, and then the dandelions take up the upper half in a field of outlined petals and leaves and dark ink in the negative spaces. “Oh,” he says quietly, lifting his arm closer to get a better look. “Dean, it’s _perfect_ , I—”

And then he looks up and meets Dean’s gaze—sees the softness in his eyes, that pleased half-smile—and _god_ , his heart aches. How has this man done such a number on him already?

“I really like it,” he finishes, dropping his gaze again. “Thank you.”

He can’t see Dean’s disappointment, but it’s a palpable thing. Still, to his credit, he sounds reasonably upbeat when he says, “Awesome! I’ll wrap it up for you, give you some care instructions, and then we’ll make another appointment to finish it off next week.”

_Another session_. “Okay,” he says, because he can’t say anything else in the face of the realization that he’s going to have to spend several more hours in the presence of this captivating man.

The time they spend wrapping up Castiel’s tattoo and talking about its care is awkward; the dynamic between them has clearly changed since the beginning of the appointment, and while Castiel knows exactly why that is, why he’s closed off all of a sudden, Dean doesn’t. Castiel catches him looking once or twice, confusion and a little bit of hurt in his eyes, but there’s nothing he can do. He can’t tell Dean _why_ , that he’s poison, that he’ll break Dean just like Naomi broke his father.

All he can do is put up a wall and try to move on.

They end up back by the front desk—this time, Jo is nowhere to be seen. “Does Wednesday afternoon work for you?” Dean asks as he wakes up the computer, meeting Castiel’s gaze over the desk that separates them.

“That should be fine.” He can leave work early, make up the extra hours on another day. It’s Saturday now, so that only gives him a few days before he has to see Dean again, but the sooner he can get it over with, the better.

“Sweet.” Dean types something in on the keyboard, then pulls a card out of one of the drawers and places it on top of the desk, in front of Castiel. It has a geometric pattern on the front, not dissimilar to the style on Castiel’s arm now, and when he flips it over with tentative fingers, he sees Dean’s name and number on the back. “In case you have any questions about the healing or anything,” Dean says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and the look in his eyes says _I hope you call_.

Castiel won’t. Can’t.

But he still says, “Thank you,” and gives Dean a smile—because he’s charming and talented and genuinely sweet, and if he weren’t a sub…

Best not to even entertain that thought.

“I have to go,” he says, slipping the card into his jacket pocket even against his better judgement. He won’t call, and if he's smart he'll rip it up once he gets home, but he also doesn’t want to hurt Dean’s feelings. It feels dangerous, though, this single piece of paper that feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket. “I need to walk home before it gets too dark.”

“You’re walking home?” Dean’s brow creases in concern, and he leans forward, just slightly. “I’m finishing up here anyway—did you want me to drop you home? It’s no problem, really.”

It’s a sweet offer, and one Castiel would certainly have taken him up on had he never taken off his flannel, but… “Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” he says gently, with the hint of a smile to soften the blow. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

Dean droops just a little, but Castiel holds his resolve. “I guess I’ll see you on Wednesday, then,” he says, and Castiel nods.

“See you on Wednesday.” 

And then he turns and walks away, feeling as though he has all the weight of the world on his weary shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art of Cas's full tattoo by [cryptomoon](http://cryptomoon.tumblr.com) <3
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://i.ibb.co/L00z5Nh/358-D3-BD5-65-D5-4335-97-D3-B75-EDA6-E75-AB)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyy it's me! I have risen from the dead! The past month and a half have really been kicking my ass, but I missed this damn WIP so much. Thank you [Mal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malmuses) for the beta, I hope you guys enjoy <3
> 
> (also we're gonna pretend like Cas drinking a fuckton the night before his tattoo didn't thin his blood out like whoa, but don't drink before your ink, kids)

Castiel tries to forget.

Tries to forget how Dean’s hands had felt on his skin. How his whole face had lit up whenever he’d smiled. How the blush on his cheeks had brought out his freckles in the best way. He spends the whole evening thinking about Dean, and thinking about how he _shouldn’t_ be thinking about Dean, because thinking about Dean is a bad idea.

Trying to forget doesn’t help.

So he buries himself in work. In his activities. Buys two new plants the very next day, runs twice as far as he usually would, tries a series of new poses that leave him a sweaty, frustrated mess on the floor of his living room, all in the vain hope of escaping the specter of Dean Winchester that feels as though it haunts his every waking moment.

But it doesn’t work. None of it works.

 _How has one person affected me so thoroughly and completely?_ he wonders as he lies awake in his too-big bed, staring at the ceiling. Him arm hurts in the places where it’s healing, and now, every time he looks at it, he’s reminded of Dean.

It’s better than being reminded of his mother, and of the parts of his biology that are cruel and violent, but only marginally so when it means that he wakes in the middle of the night, damp with sweat and achingly hard where he’s pressed against the mattress. _Dean fucking Winchester_. Castiel curls his fingers into the fabric of his pillow, hard enough that his knuckles hurt, and then releases it with a shaking breath.

There is something about Dean Winchester that followed him out of that tattoo parlor, etched into his mind and onto his skin. Getting rid of it, he is beginning to suspect, will be easier said than done.

And if his usual outlets are no longer enough to calm his mind, then he’s just going to have to try harder.

Which is how he ends up working late on Tuesday evening, hunched over his desk as he sifts through the paperwork and records of the museum’s newest display collection.

His back aches, and his shoulders have never felt so tense with how tight he’s unconsciously kept them throughout the day, but he ignores his body’s protests. If he rests, that gives him time to think, to focus on other things, and his thoughts always inevitably end up circling around to the green-eyed sub who Cas can’t seem to get out of his damn head. It’s bad enough knowing he has to see Dean again tomorrow without spending every fucking waking moment thinking about him.

“Castiel?”

Castiel snaps out of his thoughts and turns in the direction of the voice, silently cursing himself for allowing his mind to drift once again, despite how hard he’s trying to stay on task.

It’s Anna, of course it is. “Yes,” he says distractedly, running a hand through his hair in poorly-tempered frustration. “Can I help you?”

His words are shorter than he might have liked—Anna has never been anything but lovely to him—but he’s feeling all kinds of tightly wound tonight. Her lips pull down at the edges, but only for a second, and then she gives a slightly forced-looking smile. “I was just checking on you. It’s getting late, and I’m heading home now. You should do the same and get some rest, you look…” She pauses, takes in his creased shirt and unruly hair, the faint bags under his eyes. “Tired,” she finishes.

She’s right, of course—he _is_ tired, and he _does_ need to go home. Clearly, burying himself in work is no longer cutting it as a distraction from… _tomorrow_.

Castiel sighs, feeling his frustration draining out of him and being replaced by a bone-deep weariness. Thinking about Dean is inevitable, it seems. _Tomorrow_ certainly is inevitable, since he has no way to halt the ever-forward march of time. “You’re right,” he tells Anna, his voice softer than it had been. “Thank you for looking out for me, I’ll be heading home soon. Have a good night, and I’ll see you on Thursday.”

This time, when Anna smiles, it’s much more genuine. “You too, Castiel,” she says, hefting her bag up onto her shoulder. “And good luck with your appointment tomorrow.”

She says it well-meaningly, but Castiel’s shoulders still tense up, and it’s only because she’s his boss that he just barely manages to rein in a snappy response. Instead, he mutters, “Thanks,” and keeps a death-grip on his pen until he hears her footsteps recede down the hallway.

What the fuck is wrong with him? He’s never felt this tense and wound-up in his whole life, and nothing he usually does to calm himself down has been working. The more he thinks about how he’s spiralling out of control, the more he _does_ spiral out of control, and he forces himself to sit back in his chair and focus on his breathing until he’s no longer on the verge of a full-blown freak-out.

 _I only have to see Dean once more, and that’s it. He’s just a guy. There’s no reason to be getting this worked up about some guy_.

But he is. And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Castiel stays at his desk for another ten minutes, just focusing on calming himself down as he runs through his end-of-work-day routine, then packs his bag and hightails it out of the building. It’s dark outside now, and he pulls down the sleeves of his coat and hunches his shoulders as he makes his way through the crowds of people either on their way home as well, or going out for the night. He’s giving off a definite ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe, and he’s fine with that.

What he’s not fine with is this anxious mood continuing on for the whole night. There’s one person he knows who’s always been able to calm him down and distract him, and he pulls his phone out as he gets onto the subway.

_> > Are you free tonight? I could really use some company._

It’s only a minute before he gets his reply—bless his best friend.

_< < For sure. Want me to bring some Chinese takeout?_

Despite all the turmoil swirling around in his head, Castiel grins down at his phone.

_> > What kind of question is that? You bring the takeout, I’ll provide some alcohol, and your Netflix is still logged onto my TV. Perfect night._

_< < Freeloader._

_< < I’ll see you in twenty._

Thank god for Inias. His shoulders feel a tiny bit lighter the rest of the way home—hanging out with Inias will hopefully be the distraction he needs to stop thinking about tomorrow. About Dean.

Castiel shakes his head as he walks, trying to clear it. _Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think_. It’s easier said than done.

Once he’s home, he has a quick tidy—not that anything is ever really _untidy_ in his apartment—before Inias arrives. Usually he’d go digging for some snacks so that he feels like he’s playing the proper host, but tonight he just doesn’t have the energy or the impulsion. Instead, he pulls a bottle of tequila down from the top shelf of his cupboard and calls it a day.

“You really  _are_ trying to replace me with plants,” is the first thing Inias says when he walks in, Chinese takeout bag in hand. “Please don’t tell me that there’s a doll made out of ivy and flowers and shit in my room. If you miss me, all you have to do is invite me over.”

Castiel gives him an unimpressed look, but he can’t help that his lips twitch upwards in a tiny smile. “Shut up, I’m not _that_ bad,” he mutters, closing the door behind Inias. “Give it another year or two of solitary living, and then we’ll see.”

Inias laughs and sets the bag down on the coffee table, beside the tequila. “Touché, my friend. We’re drinking hard tonight, are we? What’s the occasion?”

And just like that, Castiel’s tiny smile disappears. “I’m having my second tattoo appointment tomorrow,” he says quietly, slumping down onto the couch beside Inias. “My mind won’t… stop _thinking_ about it. About Dean. But he’s a _sub_ , Inias, I—I can’t.”

His friend gives him a sympathetic look. “I can’t pretend to imagine what’s going on in your head, Cas, but whatever happens, I’m sure tomorrow is going to be fine. You’re overthinking things. And I know how we can fix that, when all other methods have failed.” He grins as he reaches for the tequila bottle and pours Castiel out a shot. “Let’s get drunk enough that you forget about pretty subs with green eyes.”

At this point, Castiel is too desperate to care that Inias is teasing him about Dean, and about how much he had told his friend the day after the first appointment. He just wants to stop _thinking_.

“Deal,” he says, and reaches for the shot.

He wakes up in the morning with, inevitably, quite the hangover.

Inias went home late last night, he remembers, saying something about still having to work tomorrow. He’d gone to the effort of making sure Cas made it to bed though, if the pajamas and bottle of water on his bedside table are anything to go by. Upon closer inspection, there’s also a bottle of aspirin and a little note that says: _For hungover Cas. From drunk Inias._

At least Inias had been less of a mess than Castiel had, though. He’d gone hard last night, fueled by nerves and the need to dull his worries for a while, and now he’s paying for it with a throbbing headache.

Thank god his appointment isn’t until the afternoon, and he’s going to have some time to become slightly more human again before he has to face Dean.

“Fuck,” Cas groans, rubbing a heavy hand over his face and shutting his eyes again against the too-bright light. Drunk Cas had made some stupid decisions last night, regarding his alcohol intake.

He lies in his bed for what feels like hours but is probably only an extra twenty minutes, and finally manages to find the motivation to get himself up. It’s immediately a mistake; the world wobbles, and Cas has to steady himself against his nightstand as the world spins. Water and aspirin first, then. The water is so good for his parched mouth that he finishes the entire bottle, and that certainly helps him rejoin the land of the living a little more. By the time he’s visited the bathroom, had some more water and pulled on a bathrobe, he’s definitely feeling a little better.

This is the last time he drinks with Inias without having a completely free schedule the next day, though. He’s clearly starting to get too old for the partying stuff that came so easily during his college years.

Breakfast is a black coffee and a half-assed meal of eggs and bacon and whatever the hell else he can find around his kitchen and throw into a pan. The smell makes him feel worse for a little while, but once he gets all of it into his stomach and he’s feeling a bit more settled, it definitely helps.

He still has several hours until he has to meet with Dean. Cas looks down at his half-completed tattoo as he nurses his second mug, and wonders if it would be possible to just leave it as is.

He had a vision though, he and Dean both, and he also knows himself well enough to be sure that the half-finished tattoo is only going to remind him of Dean more every time he looks at it. No, it’s better to get it finished, close this… _whatever he feels_ towards Dean, and move on, and it’s that thought that keeps him going as he tidies his apartment, puts himself through some very low-effort yoga, shaves his beard growth and finally gets dressed for his appointment.

Just a few more hours, and then he can put Dean behind him.

He leaves the house in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved button-down that he’d bought and never worked up the courage to wear, with his tan trench coat thrown on haphazardly at the last minute. It’s the first time in a while that he’s almost left the house without being properly covered, and he blames the oversight on his upcoming appointment and all the thoughts swirling around in his head right now.

It doesn’t take long to get to the tattoo studio that he so vividly remembers—except he’s early, because he’d been a ball of nervous energy at home and had ended up leaving just for something to _do_. It’s certainly better than being late, though. Castiel takes a deep breath in through his nose as he stares up at the sign, then lets his out in a slow exhale and pushes open the door.

This time, the reception area is empty, and Castiel can hear the faint sound of voices coming from the back rooms. It’s more than fine by him—the more time he can spend without having to talk to anyone, the better. He can be in and out, and then forget all about Dean Winchester.

He takes a seat in the waiting area, and his fingers toy anxiously with the hem of his coat while he waits. The painted bird on the opposite wall watches him, and Castiel idly admires the detail to its feathers, the regal arch of its wings, as though every single stroke of the paintbrush has come together into something _almost_ alive.

“Pretty nice, isn’t it?”

The voice startles Castiel out of his thoughts, and he flinches, looking away from the painting to the source of the words.

Dean is standing in the doorway that leads to the back rooms, one shoulder leaning against the wall and his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’s wearing a t-shirt today, and his sub mark is on full display, dark ink encircling his wrist in a sacred space that none of his tattoos dare touch.

He’s just as beautiful as Castiel remembers, and still just as off-limits.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “Is it your work?”

Dean nods, but he doesn’t look over at it. Instead, his gaze stays focused on Castiel, his expression soft and open. “Ellen commissioned it from me when I first started working here. Before I started tattooing, I did a lot more traditional art—stuff like that.” He gestures at the bird, then shoves his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “It’s been a while, though. I don’t know if I could make something quite that pretty with paints these days.”

“I’m sure you could,” Castiel says without thinking. His cheeks flush—he’s caught himself off guard. “I mean—if you could do it back then, you could do it again, surely. You’re talented enough, from what I’ve seen.”

 _Enough, Novak, what the fuck?_ Cas digs his nails into his palm, reminds himself that he’s here to get a tattoo and then never see Dean again, not _keep flirting with him_.

No subs. Not now, not ever.

Dean smiles, one corner of his mouth turning upwards, and it’s lovely but it’s nothing like the full grins that Castiel has seen from him. “Thanks, Cas,” he says, and then he nods his head towards the back room. “Shall we go get started?”

Castiel rises from his seat and follows Dean through to the tattoo stations. Jo is in there, along with an older lady who Dean introduces as Ellen, and who gives Castiel a onceover that seems to pierce through any kind of defenses he could have had up. It feels very much like what Inias has described in the past as a ‘protective mom’ expression. Both Jo and Ellen are with clients, though, so Dean leads Castiel past them and over to the tattooing station right up the back, away from the others and the low buzz of the tattoo guns.

“How’s the tattoo healing up so far?” Dean asks as he takes his seat, setting up the last of his space before he returns his full attention to Castiel. “Can I see?”

Taking off his coat feels a little easier than it had the first time Castiel had come here, but it’s still so hard to expose his mark to anyone, especially when it carries so much weight and is having such an impact on his relationship with Dean. Still, he forces himself to shove all that down and to be _fucking professional_ , and so he pulls off the trench coat and neatly folds it, placing it on a clear bench area where it won’t get in the way of Dean’s work.

Dean reaches out for Castiel’s arm when he sits back down, and for a second his gaze flicks up to Castiel’s—as though he’s seeking permission to touch. Castiel swallows, and nods his consent.

This time, the contact is skin to skin, without the barrier of Dean’s gloves between them. Dean’s fingers are gentle, careful, as he tilts Cas’s forearm this way and that to get an idea of how the tattoo is healing. “It’s looking good,” he says finally, looking up with a grin. “You must have been taking real good care of it. I’ll be able to finish the rest up today, and then you’ll be good to go.”

They get Castiel positioned on the chair on his stomach so that Dean can access his elbow, and then he tries his best to relax while Dean pulls on his gloves and arranges his ink. The next time Dean touches him, it’s with a latex barrier between them, and Cas hates how much he hates it. Soon enough, though, Dean gets started on the tattooing itself, and the pain of that provides Castiel with more than enough distraction.

“I like your shirt.”

Or so he’d thought.

When he looks up in surprise, Dean is still tattooing, inking in the details in the flower of life that’s forming on his elbow and hurts like a motherfucker, but there’s the tiny hint of a smile curling his lips. “What?” Castiel asks, and Dean carefully finishes the line he’s working on before he pauses and meets Castiel’s eyes.

“Your shirt,” he says, making a small gesture with the now-inert tattoo gun. “It’s nice. Brings out your eyes… and your real nice arms.”

It’s not overly flirtatious. Not forced, or leering, or in any way ‘too much.’ It’s a genuine compliment, with the smallest hint of flirtation, and Castiel really doesn’t know what to do about this. Dean is still being friendly and charming, even though Castiel had tried his best to close him out last time (in a way that had given the poor artist whiplash, he’s sure, but that couldn’t be avoided). The world is so fucking unfair to have put that band around his wrist and that chemistry in his brain.

But that’s the reality of it, and it’s imperative that, as a Dom, Castiel doesn’t overstep.

“Thank you,” he says carefully, pillowing his cheek on his other forearm so that he can watch Dean better. “I bought it a long time ago, but… I think this is the first time I’ve ever worn it.” _Not too flirty, but not too cold. Fuck, this is hard._

Dean’s smile widens, _almost_ to the stage where it had been last time—wide and bright and genuine. “Well, you should definitely wear it more often. Not that I’m an authority on dress sense or anything, since half my wardrobe is flannels and jeans, but…” He shrugs. “I can appreciate a nice shirt on a good-looking guy.”

There’s that blush on his cheeks again, barely visible beneath the lights but definitely there. Castiel doesn’t know how to respond to that compliment at all—his automatic reaction is to flirt back, but he _can’t_ , he needs to keep a handle on himself because he’s a _Dom_ and Dean is far, far too good for him.

He gives Dean a tight smile and quietly says, “Thank you,” once more, then lowers his gaze from Dean’s in a clear end to the conversation.

There’s a distinct pause, a quiet sound that might be a sigh, and then the gun hums to life once more and Dean gets back to work.

They don’t talk very much, after that—Dean is too focused on the tattoo, and Castiel is doing his best to ignore the pain that radiates from his arm. He distantly registers the sounds of Jo and Ellen finishing up with their clients and leaving for a lunch break, and then it’s just him and Dean and the unspoken tension that has settled heavily between them.

There’s so much he wants to say to Dean, so much he wants to know about him and his life, and biting his tongue is one of the hardest things he’s done. The pain is both a blessing and a curse, because it distracts him from the beautiful artist, but his resolve to stay quiet means that he has nothing else to focus on. He suffers through it in silence, not thinking about how close Dean is, or the touch of gloved fingers on his skin—

Or the fact that he’s going to be carrying around a piece of Dean in the art on his body for the rest of his fucking life.

His chest feels too tight, as though it’s being crushed against the chair, and he can’t breathe. The room feels as though it’s swimming in front of his eyes, and he hasn’t experienced anything like this since—well, since his eighteenth birthday.

He tries to fight through it, tries to keep his breathing steady even past the constriction of his throat and the steel bands pulling his chest tighter and tighter, but he can’t, he _can’t_ , and then—

And then Dean’s gloved hands are on his face, holding him steady even as he crouches down beside the chair, concern in those green eyes. “Cas,” he says, and then again, more forcefully. “ _Cas_.”

The tattoo gun is off. He has no idea how long it’s been off, or whether Dean has tried to get his attention before this, or really anything else that’s been happening. All that he knows is that he can’t breathe.

“C’mon, sit up for me,” Dean says, and he’s withdrawn into such a viscerally panicked part of himself that his instincts buck at the order, but he forces himself to move, guided by Dean’s steady hands. Sitting up, it’s a little easier to breathe, but he still feels as though he’s sucking in gulps of air that still aren’t enough. What is wrong with him?

“Cas, hey, look at me.”

The gloves are gone now, and it’s just Dean’s steadying hands, one cupping his face and the other gripping his shoulder. Castiel forces himself to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Can you breathe? Try and take a deep breath in with me…”

He inhales shakily.

“And out.”

They repeat that once, twice, three times, until his chest doesn’t feel quite so tight. Castiel leans into Dean’s hands just a little, and watches as Dean’s gaze drops to his forearm, to the Dom mark and the half-finished tattoo, then lifts back up to Cas’s eyes. “What should I do, Cas?” he asks, his voice soft but firm. “How can I help?”

There’s an _I don’t know_ perched on the tip of his tongue, because he _doesn’t_ know, he doesn’t even know why he’s reacting like this, but—

There’s something in Dean’s eyes that is asking for a real answer, and something in Castiel’s mind that is demanding he give one.

“Water,” he says, his voice rough and shaky. “A glass of water, please.”

Dean pulls away, but it feels like his hands linger for a moment before dropping. “Hot or cold?”

 _Who asks for a glass of hot water?_ “Cold,” Castiel says, and Dean disappears to another room with quick efficiency, returning barely a minute later with a glass of water. Something about it unknots just a little of the tension that’s coiled tight around his chest.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says gratefully, taking the glass from Dean’s hand and draining half of it in one go. Dean lingers until he’s stopped drinking, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Do you want me to sit next to you, or back on my stool?” Dean asks once Castiel has paused for breath, and there’s nothing pushy or insistent about it, just a calm openness. Patient. Waiting.

 _Next to me_. “On your stool is fine,” Castiel murmurs, and he half expects to see disappointment on Dean’s face, but he shows no such signs as he takes a seat, close enough to Castiel that their knees are almost touching.

A few moments pass, in which Castiel tries to steady his breathing, and finishes the rest of his water. Dean takes the empty glass before Cas can even say anything, setting it aside and away from his tattooing equipment. “How are you feeling now?” he asks.

Surprisingly, when Castiel actually thinks about it, a lot of the tension and panic has eased. He feels calmer. More centered. “I… better, I think,” he answers tentatively. “I have no idea what caused that, I’ve never—I haven’t experienced it in a long time.”

Dean hums quietly, his head tilted and soft gaze watching Castiel. “Were you worried about today?” he asks, and that is _not_ the question Castiel had been expecting.

“How did—“ he starts, and then cuts himself off, because he doesn’t want to offend Dean, but the artist just shrugs, and there’s a small smile on his lips.

“I’m pretty perceptive sometimes. You’re getting your Dom mark covered up, basically, and once you saw I was a sub, it was like you’d flipped a switch. You’ve been tense this whole session, to the point where you had a panic attack, and the thing that helped calm you down was for you to give me orders in the guise of questions. I can start to put the pieces of the puzzle together.”

Dean knows. He knows all about how fucked up Castiel is, how _dangerous_ and _broken_ he is because of the mark on his skin. It’s fucking terrifying, and he can feel himself tense again, his fight-or-flight mode activated.

A warm, grounding hand rests on his knee. 

“Cas,” Dean says, and there’s a hint of weight to it that makes Castiel pause. “I’m not here to judge you or psychoanalyze you or whatever. Your past is your past. But I really like you, and I want to help you not be so… so _afraid_. Or at least so wound up and suppressed that you have a panic attack because you haven’t Dommed for anyone in… what, a year?”

Castiel flinches. “Never,” he says quietly, and Dean’s eyes widen. He gives a low whistle.

“Well, then. Even more important, I guess.”

Cas looks down at his hands; clenches them into fists. He’s seen what a Dom’s hands can do. He won’t inflict that on anyone. “Dean, I…” He trails off. How does he explain everything to someone he barely knows? Someone he was _interested in_? There’s no possible way to do it, not when he’s walled himself off to the idea of taking a sub or talking about this with anyone who’s not Inias and a bottle of vodka.

Dean’s hand gives his knee a quick squeeze, and then he lets it fall away. “The offer is there if you need it. Having a sub doesn’t need to be about sex or pain or any of that, you know. There are lots of other options. But the longer you leave it, the more it’s gonna fuck with your head.” He smiles at Castiel, slow and sad, and then seems to shake himself. “Fuck, enough of the downer talk. You paid for a tattoo, not a therapist. Are you feeling any better now, or do you want to put the rest of the tattoo off for another time?”

There’s a lot going on in Castiel’s head right now, but he tries to shut most of it out and focus on what he’s feeling. He can breathe again, the squeezing grip around his chest has loosened, and the room itself has stabilized once more to the point where it no longer feels like it’s spinning. “I feel better,” he confirms, and tries not to think about Dean’s theory and the fact that he’d been giving Dean indirect orders.

_Studies have shown that the most common solution to combat a withdrawal is to become involved with a submissive, or to fulfil the biologically Dominant part that is being ignored in some way._

“I think I’m good to keep going,” he tells Dean, resisting the urge to fidget beneath his gaze. The half-finished tattoo on his elbow still aches, and he doesn’t think the pain is going to be able to distract him, but he really just wants to get this appointment over with. He has a lot to think about when he gets home.

Dean watches him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed and scrutinizing, but eventually gives a small nod. “Alright,” he says, but holds up a stern finger. “But if you need me to go slower, or to stop and take a break, or _anything_ , you tell me.” There’s something in his smile that Castiel can’t quite decipher, something amused but a little bit sad. “ _Communication_ , Cas. That’s what’s important.”

They keep going, and Castiel makes sure to breathe and tell Dean if they need to pause. There’s less tension in his muscles now, since Dean had correctly guessed that he was anxious and they’d unknowingly worked through it together, so it’s much easier to relax as he lies on his stomach on the chair and lets Dean work.

By the time Dean sits back in his chair and wipes over the skin of Castiel’s arm one last time, it feels like both a second and an eternity have passed. Cas blinks, then focuses on Dean’s face, and that grin.

“You’re all done. Want to have a look?”

It’s beautiful. Castiel can’t stop looking at it, turning his arm to look at the dandelions, the flower of life, the black ink in the negative spaces and the thin lines banding across his bicep. For the first time in years, his eyes don’t go straight to his mark. In fact, it’s as though it’s not even there.

“Thank you,” he breathes, and he’s a little embarrassed that there are tears in his eyes. Dean just claps a hand to his shoulder and smiles.

They square up the payments, and Dean gives him instructions on how to care for his healing tattoo, but before they say goodbye, Dean hands him a card—one side with his number on it, and the other side bearing a familiar-looking geometric pattern that Castiel had last seen in pieces at the bottom of his trash can. His stomach churns guiltily, but when he meets Dean's gaze, there's no judgement there.

 _Communication_.

“If you ever need me, call me.” Dean’s voice is serious. “I’ve seen what happens when people ignore their biology like you are, and it’s never good. I’m happy to help you out—like I said, it can be as simple as it was earlier. Just… think about it. Please.” 

Against his better judgement, Castiel says, “I will.”

He leaves with the card burning a hole in his wallet once more. With Dean’s words on a loop in his mind, sleep takes a long time to come that night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 1:30am and I have an exam in 36 hours but here's another chapter because I'm a bad uni student and a serial procrastinator

The card sits innocuously on Castiel’s nightstand.

He’s not sure whether keeping it there is a good decision or a bad one. On the one hand, it reminds him of Dean every time he looks at it—of green eyes and a warm smile and a pull that he should be resisting, that he has denied himself ever since he found out what he is and what he has the capability to do. On the other hand…

On the other hand, he’s read the books. He’s started to feel the effects of keeping his biology suppressed, and he’s not keen to return to the clawing, panicked anxiety that had gripped him during his last tattoo session.

So he leaves the card there—inertia is easier than change—and tries his best not to think about it.

He goes over to Inias’s apartment the next night.

“So? How did it go with green-eyes? What was his name, Dean?”

Castiel looks down at his hands where they’re resting on the counter, as though he can see through the fabric of his long sleeves to the wrapped tattoo beneath. “It was… not what I expected,” he hedges, because it still feels a little too raw to talk about.

Inias raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t press. Doesn’t pry. Just waits.

Cas could very easily change the topic, and Inias would let it go, but… the things Dean said to him have been circling around in his brain for the last twenty-four hours, and he’s starting to feel like he’s going to start going mad if he doesn’t get it off his chest.

“I think I had a panic attack,” he admits quietly. His gaze stays fixed on the table, fingers worrying at the cuff of his sleeve. “I was trying not to be weird about the fact that he was a sub, even though I was definitely _feeling_ weird about it, and I got so caught up in my head and suddenly I just—I couldn’t _breathe_. But somehow he noticed and he… helped me through it, I guess. I still don’t understand exactly how, but he talked to me and asked me questions until it kinda… faded?” Castiel laces his fingers together tightly and presses them down against the wood of the counter. “He seemed to think it was because I’m a—because of what I am.”

Inias’s mouth forms a thin, sympathetic line, and he leans forward over his folded arms where they rest on the tabletop. “Has that happened to you before?” he asks, and there’s worry colouring his voice. “The panic attack thing? Because Cas… if it’s getting worse, you should—“

“I’m fine,” Castiel bites out. His knuckles are turning white. “I’m _fine_ , Inias. I’ve dealt with it before, and I’ll _keep_ dealing with it.”

Inias opens his mouth to retort, but before they can get any further in the conversation, Hannah walks into the kitchen. She’s sweet, and Castiel likes her, but she doesn’t know half the things Inias knows about him and he’d like to keep it that way. From the hint of frustration in Inias’s eyes as he backs down, he knows that, and Castiel silently thanks him for not pressing it further. He forces himself to unwind, to relax his shoulders and unclench his hands, smiling as he greets Hannah.

The night wears on, and although they talk about a lot of different things, they don’t return to that topic. Castiel doesn’t tell his friend about the card, or about Dean’s offer.

And he _certainly_ doesn’t confess to, in the darkness of the night, when he feels most alone or when that everpresent itch creeps back under his skin, wanting to take Dean up on it.

It’s just over a week before he finally breaks.

Ever since that day, it’s almost constantly been on his mind. Dean, the card, the offer, all of it. He’s done his best to bury it down, but the tension still lingers. He can’t _think_ , can’t sit still, can’t focus on anything, not even work or running or cleaning every fucking inch of his apartment until it’s gleaming. This is the worst he’s ever been, and he knows that. He’s smart enough to recognize it, even if he doesn’t want to accept what the books tried to tell him way back when he started feeling this way.

His biology has him backed into a corner; denying it is only going to perpetuate the spiral.

And Cas knows that, _logically_ , he knows it. He’s seen how couples are portrayed in the media, how they act in real life. There’s a whole range of possibilities out there. But he knows his parents, and he knows what his mom was like, and even though his own brain is against him, he’s still fucking _petrified_ of trying. Just in case… just in case he ends up being like her.

But he’s at the point now where none of his other coping mechanisms are working. He can’t focus enough to do yoga, he can barely concentrate at work and is bending over backwards to avoid snapping at anyone because of it, _especially_ Anna. Sometimes, he can’t even sleep for the tension that simmers beneath his skin. The tattoo helps, but it’s hard to hide his own biology from himself when it’s now fucking with his brain during every moment of his day.

So, really, it’s not like he has a lot of options left that aren’t: read self-help books, see a professional, call Dean. And calling Dean seems like the least confronting choice of the three, which is why he’s sitting on his couch at three in the afternoon on a Saturday, staring down at his phone and the business card beside it.

Somehow, picking up his phone and dialing that number feels like one of the most overwhelming, terrifying things he’s done in his life—including packing up and moving across the country to go to college. Calling Dean means acknowledging that he has a problem. Calling Dean means acknowledging that he thinks Dean can _solve_ that problem.

He inhales shakily, closes his eyes for a moment, then forces himself to reach for his phone.

His fingers tremble as he dials the numbers, one by one, and his thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button for what seems like an eternity before he presses it. It rings; once, twice, three times.

“Hey, this is Dean.”

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat. It’s a few moments before he can put his array of thoughts into words. “I—hello. It’s Castiel. From, um. From the tattoo shop?”

There’s a pause on the line, and Castiel holds his breath for one long moment, until—

“Cas! Hey, dude, how are you?”

It’s weird, hearing Dean’s voice after over a week of trying his hardest not to think about him. And for him to answer so casually, as though Castiel _actually_ calling him isn’t one of the biggest, most terrifying things he’s done in his entire life? He doesn’t quite know how to wrap his head around it all right now, so he doesn’t try.

“I’ve been better,” he admits quietly. Forcing those words out is hard—he’s been denying that he has a problem for so long that now, actually facing it feels as though it contradicts every single one of his instincts. “You… you said to call you if I needed you.” Whatever _needed you_ , means—Castiel doesn’t want to think too hard about that right now.

There’s a rustle on the other side of the phone, and when Dean speaks again, his voice is clearer, more serious. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “I’m glad you actually did. You not doing too well?”

“You could say that,” Castiel mutters. “I can’t really sleep, and my moods swing, and I always feel… restless. Like there’s an itch under my skin that I just can’t scratch.”

Dean hums. “Sounds about right, from what I’ve heard. You’ve been actively avoiding your biology, and it’s catching up to you. It’ll keep fucking with you until you do something to fix it.”

That’s certainly what it feels like it’s doing. Castiel may have survived for this long, but it turns out he can’t run from himself forever. Now, it’s all he can do to pray that he never becomes what he resolved never to be. “So it seems,” he says quietly. “So, um… is there anything you can do to help me? I don’t know what exactly, I—I don’t want to hurt you. Whatever you did at the studio seemed to help, though.”

There’s a long pause on Dean’s end of the connection.

“Are you free this evening?”

Castiel frowns—that seems very soon. He’s not sure that he feels ready to jump into anything that quickly. It might be good to get it over with, though, so he doesn’t have to overthink anything. Then, hopefully, he can going back to being normal for as long as he can. “Um. Yes?”

“Good. Give me your address, and I’m going to bring over some stuff so that we can make dinner, then we can have a chat about all this. Sound good?”

Dean is coming over for dinner? When he’d made this call, he’d expected that it would end up in some kind of… _dungeon_ scenario, with whips and leashes and whatnot. He doesn’t really have much to base his perception of dominating off of, after all, other than what he sees in the media, and…

And bruises, and closed doors.

But this is not what he’d been expecting, and it throws him for somewhat of a loop. “Dinner? Dinner, uh, dinner sounds good. And then we’ll talk about… what needs to happen, right? Will we _do_ anything tonight?” He’s nervous, tentative. All of this is foreign territory for him, so he’s relying heavily on Dean.

How long will it be until Dean just gives up on him? He’s barely more than a stranger, and a broken one, at that.

“I don’t know if we’ll do anything tonight,” comes the reply. “We’ll see. Probably just best for us to get to know each other first, yeah?”

“That sounds reasonable. I’ll text you my address, and please let me know if there’s anything you want me to buy before you come over. You are helping me out, after all.”

When Dean replies, it’s so easy to visualize the smile on his face. “Of course. I’ll be over once I’m done with work, probably around five thirty or six.”

“Okay, Dean. I’ll see you then.”

“Bye, Cas.”

Castiel lowers his phone from his ear and presses the ‘end call’ button. He feels like he’s in somewhat of a daze, drifting, floating. He’s spent so many years trying to deny his nature, so that he doesn’t end up just like Naomi. But if he’s slowly spiraling downwards—unable to focus, unable to keep his shit together or stop overthinking things—it’s time for that to change. Even if he only does it once or twice, staves it off for as long as he can before he starts to disintegrate again, it might help.

Dean had said that it can be easy, simple, but all Castiel knows are heavy hands and sharp, cutting words. It’s hard to wrap his head around the idea that… there might be more to dominating than just that.

He drops his phone onto couch and puts his head into his hands. It’s starting to feel like there’s a lot he doesn’t know about his own designation, and he can feel the weight of it crushing him. All the years of hiding, of suppressing, of ignoring… they’re coming back to bite him now.

Castiel can feel his chest tightening, his heartbeat speeding up. Calling Dean may have been a small first step, but it’s still a first step, and it’s terrifying when he doesn’t really know where this is taking him.

All he has to do now, though, is to survive the next few hours. Hopefully Dean will know how to help, and they can make Castiel feel better, and then he can go back to ignoring the dominant side of him for the next handful of years before it all builds up again and the cycle continues.

He takes a deep breath, then exhales.

Dean arrives just before six, standing in the hallway of Castiel’s apartment with a bag of groceries and that smile which has consumed Castiel’s thoughts ever since they first met. “Heya, Cas,” he says. “How are you?”

Castiel swallows. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, and the way that his shoulders tense at the sight of this man, whom he has spent so long trying to avoid. Dean is beautiful and Cas isn’t good enough, doesn’t want to break him.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly, and it’s partly the truth, because he _is_ , but he also feels like he’s falling in more ways than one. “It hasn’t been the easiest week, though, and I…” He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, then admits, “I want to stop feeling like this.”

Dean’s mouth twists in sympathy. “Yeah, dude,” he says, “I get that. Hopefully we can take your mind off it for a bit—I, uh, I brought ingredients for burgers, but I forgot to ask if you were vegetarian or anything like that…?” He trails off, eyebrows raised, forming his statement into a question.

Thankfully, Castiel isn’t, otherwise it would have been an awkward food choice on Dean’s part. He shakes his head, and a tiny smile curls his lips as he watches Dean’s shoulder slump in relief.

“Awesome, dude. I can never understand people who don’t eat meat. It’s not something I could ever do.” He smiles at Castiel for a few seconds, then leans pointedly to the side, looking over Castiel’s shoulder and into his apartment. “You gonna point me towards the kitchen, or am I gonna leave these burgers outside on the pavement and hope for the best?” he asks, his eyes alight with the teasing grin on his face.

How has this man managed to work his way so thoroughly into Castiel’s heart in such a short period of time? Castiel can't keep himself from giving Dean a matching smile in return. “You’re right,” he says, nodding his head. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. Please, come in—I’ll show you around.”

Dean steps over the threshold and into Castiel’s apartment—toeing his shoes off by the front door when he sees that Cas is barefoot and a few pairs of his shoes are neatly lined up in the entryway. Thoughtful, observant, kind—Castiel is beginning to think that Dean might truly be a perfect man. How is that even possible?

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Dean says as Castiel leads him through to the kitchen. “Just you?”

Why does he want to know? Is it so that they can have privacy? So that Dean can know that whatever he has planned for tonight, they won’t be interrupted? Castiel is in uncharted territory now, and his mind is racing with all the possibilities of what could happen tonight.

“Yes,” he says, trying to quash his errant and tangential thoughts. “My best friend, Inias, used to live with me, but he moved in with his girlfriend a little while ago, so…” Castiel shrugs, idly examining the tips of his spider plant in an effort to prove that he’s unbothered by his lonely living status. “It’s just me.”

Dean sets his bag of groceries down on the countertop and looks around at the array of plants decorating the windowsills, the edges of the counter, even the small dining table a few feet away. “I see,” he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips that he seems to be doing a poor job of hiding. “Which explains the plants, I’m guessing?”

“Don’t you get started.” Castiel scowls. “Inias already teases me about it enough without you joining in. I can’t get a damn cat, so this is the closest I can get, okay?”

Dean’s half-hidden smile morphs into a full, wide grin—endearing in a way that Inias never manages to pull off when he’s annoyed Castiel. _It must be my messed up brain_ , Castiel tells himself. _Dean is a sub,_ that’s  _why I’m less inclined to be mad at him_.

Still, he keeps up his fake scowl, even as Dean says, “I’m teasing, I’m teasing, Cas. I like the plants—I can see why you wanted me to add them into your tattoo. Which, how is it healing, by the way?”

 _The tattoo_. Castiel had almost forgotten about it, too distracted by the thought of Dean being _in his apartment_ to remember all of the circumstances of how that actually came to be. “It’s good,” he tells Dean, any simmering irritation immediately fading now that they’re on a different point of conversation. He pushes the long sleeve of his shirt up as far as it will go, to show Dean the bottom three quarters of his forearm. “It was a bit sore for a few days, but it feels good now. I still love it.”

Dean’s smile turns softer as he steps closer to Cas, and he reaches out a hand, then pauses before he makes contact with his skin. “Do you mind?” he asks, eyebrows raised in a question, fingertips hovering over inked skin.

“Go ahead,” Castiel murmurs—too entranced to say anything else even if he wanted to.

The touch of Dean’s fingers on his forearm is explorative, yielding, gentle. He traces the lines of his own artwork, carefully tilts Castiel’s arm this way and that to examine it. His hands are warm, _electric_. “It’s looking good,” Dean says, and Castiel only catches his words because of the way he’s staring at Dean’s face, memorizing the pattern of his freckles and the plush curve of his lips. “It healed well.”

“I made sure I looked after it,” Castiel replies, the words coming easily and without thought. “It’s far too beautiful to mess up with lack of proper care, and I spent too much money on it.”

Dean laughs, his green eyes dancing. “Aw, shucks,” he says, waving a hand jokingly. “I’m glad you’re happy with it, Cas. I wish all my clients shared your attitude towards tattoos and healing.”

“It’s a piece of art.” Castiel couldn’t even fathom not treating any kind of artwork, no matter its format, with the utmost of respect. “Of course I’m going to preserve it as best I can. It would be a little hypocritical of me to neglect it, given what I do for work,” he muses, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a tiny smile for the first time all day. Even Dean’s presence is settling him, and they haven’t even _done_ anything yet.

Before that thought can circle back to the existential panic that’s laced his thoughts for the past week or so, however, Dean manages to derail him once more. “Yeah, we didn’t get to talk much about your work before,” he says, leaning his hip against the edge of the counter and raising his eyebrows at Castiel. “How about we get started with cooking dinner, and you tell me about it while we work? I don’t know about you, but I’ve barely eaten all day, and I’m fucking starving.

Castiel’s smile widens, brightens. “We can definitely do that.”

It turns out that Dean has bought just about everything they could need for the burgers, despite the fact that Castiel _does_ cook for himself pretty often and already keeps most of the staples in his kitchen. They unpack the grocery bag and set everything out on the counter in front of them. “You work on the meat and I’ll do the other toppings?” Castiel suggests, and Dean gives him a quick grin.

“You’re the boss.”

It’s been a long time since Castiel has cooked with anyone—Inias has never been the biggest fan of home cooking, so Cas was the chef of the house back when they lived together. Now, though, with Dean, they seem to fall into an easy synchronicity. “Where do you keep your frying pans, Cas?” Dean asks, as he washes his hands over the kitchen sink.

Castiel pauses in his slicing of tomatoes and sets his knife down, then moves over to the cupboards beside the stove’s rangehood. “They’re up here,” he points out, opening the doors to show an assortment of pots and pans.

Dean examines them with curiosity. “Which would be best for burgers, do you think?”

Not that Castiel has had much experience with cooking burgers, but if Dean is asking for his opinion… He reaches up and selects a cast iron skillet. “Probably this one,” he says as he hands it to Dean. Their fingers brush as they exchange grips on the handle, and Dean shakes his head, a wry smile curling his lips.

“Nothing beats cooking burgers on a grill, but I guess we’ll just have to make do with this. Unless you feel like setting off all the fire alarms and sprinklers in your apartment?” His smile widens to a grin, and he nods at the zebra cactus on the windowsill. “At least then you wouldn’t have to worry about watering your plants for a while, huh?”

Cas’s brows crease in a frown. “Actually, that would be far too much water for them—most of them are succulents or indoor plants that don’t need very regular watering, that much all at once would give them root rot, and—“

Dean’s lips are twitching now, and there’s a teasing look in his eye. Castiel trails off, then squints accusingly. “You’re making a joke, aren’t you?”

“I was,” Dean agrees, and his tone is casual and relaxed as he turns away and sets the skillet down on the stovetop. “It’s really sweet how much you care for your plants, though. You didn’t want to go into a job related to plants?”

“Plants became a hobby of mine later,” he confesses to Dean, stepping carefully around him with a hand touching lightly against the small of his back, then resituating himself at his chopping board. “When I went to college, I picked the first thing that interested me. I like being orderly, and I like history, and I’m good at using my brain, so I decided to study to become a registrar. I only started getting into plants a year or two ago— _not_ just because Inias moved out, as he likes to insist. I would have gotten a cat or another kind of pet, but…” He shrugs his shoulders sadly. “The apartment building won’t let me. Don’t tell my plants that they were my second option though.”

Dean had been staring at him, lips parted and hands paused in their movements—but he seems to snap back to himself as Castiel finishes talking. He grins, and reaches out to cup his hands around the sides of the zebra cactus in front of him, as though covering its nonexistent ears. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I won’t tell.”

In that moment, Castiel realizes that he trusts Dean, completely and implicitly. It might be a little bit insane, but there’s a pull behind his ribcage that he can’t ignore, a flutter in his chest the likes of which he’s never felt before.

He must be staring, because Dean slowly lowers his hands. For a few long moments, they just watch each other, something unspoken passing between them—

And then there’s a muffled noise up in the ceiling, Cas’s upstairs neighbours ruining the fragile moment, and the spell breaks.

“So, uh,” Dean says, a faint flush colouring his cheeks. “Burgers?”

“Burgers, yes,” Castiel agrees, turning away so quickly that he almost trips himself. “Good idea.”

For the next minute, they work in silence. Cas moves past Dean to get to the oven, letting him know he’s there with a quick touch to his hip as Dean attends to the skillet, and slides his tray of bacon in so that it can grill. When he straightens back up, he finds himself face to face with Dean, who’s turned away from the stove. In the small kitchen area, there’s not much room for them to pass, and they do an awkward side-to-side shuffle for a few moments before Dean bursts into laughter. Cas can’t help but grin. “It doesn’t look like this kitchen is big enough for the both of us, does it?”

Dean shrugs, still chuckling softly. “Doesn’t matter, man. I like cooking with you, it’s been ages since I’ve done this with anyone. Used to do it with my mom, until I moved out here.”

They carefully move around each other, Cas’s fingers against Dean’s side and Dean leaning into the touch just a little, and then step back. Dean picks up the plate of burger patties he’d left on the counter by the fridge. “Your mom cooks?” Castiel asks, moving out of Dean’s way to let him get back to the stove.

“My mom makes the best fucking pie you’ll ever taste,” Dean announces as he drops the burgers into the hot pan, a somewhat dreamy expression on his face. “She’s awesome, dude. I miss her—that’s the one thing that sucked about moving out here to become an artist.”

It occurs to Castiel in this moment that he knows barely anything about Dean. All their conversations have been about _him_ , about his likes, preferences, designation, tattoo. All of it. But Dean? Dean remains a mystery in so many aspects.

He resolves to find out more tonight—to learn what makes Dean tick, and what made him into the person he is today. He’s _so_ curious, in a way that he’s never been about any person he’s ever met.

“You’re going to tell me more about that over dinner,” he tells Dean with a half-smile, watching the way Dean pauses and then nods enthusiastically.

“We can do that.”

They spend the next ten minutes cooking together, Dean monitoring the burgers while Castiel puts together the rest of the toppings. Somehow, Dean always manages to end up just a little bit in Castiel’s way, and he gently moves him without thinking, with a hand to his back or hip or a quietly said “watch out, coming past.”

Even with Dean’s apparent lack of spatial awareness, though, they work well together. Dean is quick to learn the ins and outs of Castiel’s kitchen, asking where things are located or for Castiel’s opinion on this or that. It’s not long before the burgers are done cooking and they’re standing side by side at the kitchen counter, their elbows bumping while they each assemble the burgers.

“These smell fantastic,” Castiel says as he perches his top bun carefully on top of his fillings.

Dean, in contrast, slaps the last few pieces onto his towering monstrosity and grins as he caps it off. “Gotta wait and see if they taste as good as they smell,” he announces, picking up his plate. He dances around Castiel and makes his way over to the small dining table. “You coming or what?”

He looks so comfortable already, seating himself across from where Castiel would usually sit and propping his elbows on the table. Cas’s eyes trail over his bared arms, from the inked designs to the band that encircles his wrist, stark against his skin. Despite the reminder of Dean’s designation, though, the part of him that has self-combusted every time he even thought about being with a sub is… quieter.

“I’m coming,” Castiel mutters, barely holding back his smile. He sits down at the table opposite Dean and sets his plate down, then picks his burger up. It smells divine, but he pauses before tasting it to watch Dean taste his first bite, anticipation thrumming under his skin. He’s not sure why—it’s just a burger, after all—but the please sound that Dean makes as he bites into the meal they made _together_ is more rewarding than Cas had thought it would be.

“Damn, tha’s good,” Dean declares around his mouthful, and this time, Castiel can’t hide his grin. He takes a bite of his own burger, and has to agree. Whatever Dean had put into the patties tastes perfect, and there’s never anything better than a home cooked meal.

They devour their meals in record time, and Dean goes back for a second burger, while Castiel settles for eating the rest of the vegetables he’d cut up as toppings. They find moments to talk while they eat—ravenously, in Dean’s case—and slowly, he manages to unearth a little bit more about Dean. Only small things, here and there, he doesn’t want it to feel too much like he’s prying, but he finds out that Dean moved out to California when he was twenty. His parents (divorced) still live in Kansas, and his little brother is studying to be a lawyer at Stanford. He became a tattoo artist apprentice with his mom’s friend Ellen, and never looked back.

It’s fascinating talking to Dean and learning more about him, but as they finish their meal and set aside their empty plates, Castiel’s thoughts start to creep back in. Dean invited himself over for dinner for a reason—is he going to find out what it is now? Are they going to get into a… a _scene_ , or whatever it’s called?

For all that he’s been thinking about this all day, he doesn’t feel ready for whatever Dean could throw at him. The relaxation that he’s been feeling for the past hour as he’s been cooking and talking with Dean starts to dissipate, and he interlaces his fingers tightly where they’re resting on the table in front of him. “We need to talk,” he says, his voice quiet and serious for the first time in an hour.

Dean raises his eyebrows, giving Castiel his attention. “What about?” he asks, though from the way he shifts in his seat, Cas is pretty sure that he knows exactly the topic of conversation.

“About… you helping me,” he says—he can’t quite get the words out, not yet. “How does this… this _thing_ work? When will we start?”

The corners of Dean’s lips lift in a smile and he leans forward, resting his inked forearms on the table. “Cas,” he says, the picture of casual relaxation, a spark in his eyes that says _I know something you don’t_. “You already have.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Mal](http://https://archiveofourown.org/users/malmuses) for beta-ing!

_You already have_.

Castiel’s pulse beats like a drum in his ears. He already has? What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?

“Dean,” he says slowly, carefully, and he watches the smile fade from Dean’s lips. “I’m going to need you to explain what you mean by that.”

Dean shifts in his chair, and there’s a hint of worry in his eyes now, as though he’s beginning to suspect that he’s mis-stepped. “I, um,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I wanted to show you that dominating doesn’t have to be heavy or full-on or anything like that. That it’s an underlying dynamic—like what I had you do while we were at the tattoo studio, when I calmed you down.”

Castiel takes a deep breath in through his nose, then out through his mouth. He presses his forearm against the wood of the table, hiding his mark from Dean’s eyes and from his own. “The difference between these situations,” he says, speaking carefully and clearly, “is that in the studio, I was having a panic attack. You did what you had to do to calm me down in an emergency. Here—“ He makes a small gesture to his apartment with his right hand, and Dean shrinks down in his chair a little. “—we’re in my home. My safe space, and somewhere where I don’t expect to be deceived. Even if you had good intentions, Dean, you’ve been… manipulating me by not being honest about what you’re doing.”

He can feel himself starting to shake apart—he’d trusted Dean, and it had felt so good to just be with him, but it must have all been so carefully calculated.

“Cas,” Dean says, and there’s a tremble in his voice that catches Castiel’s attention. “I didn’t mean to trick you, honest. I just wanted to see if it would even work, and I thought that if I told you I was going to lead you into having control, you’d shy away from it, and I—I’m sorry.”

He means it. He means every word, truly and genuinely, and it makes Castiel pause. Dean’s doing this to  _help_ him, not to deliberately deceive him. He curls his fingers inwards until his nails bite into his palms, and inhales slowly, then exhales.

 _Slow_. _Calm_.

At least his meditation has taught him this much, even if it’s stopped helping over the years like it used to. Castiel forces himself to look past the initial emotions that are bubbling up to the surface, and just _think._

_Dean isn’t here to hurt him._

_Dean hadn’t deceived him maliciously._

_Dean is trying to help_.

He inhales once more, and then tries to let it all go.

“I think I need some space,” he says, and his heart lurches at the way Dean’s face crumples. “I mean—I’m not mad at you. Not really. But I need to think, and be by myself, and just get my thoughts in order for a bit without you here. Does that make sense?”

Slowly, Dean nods. He’s rubbing his left forearm, anxiously, repetitively. “It does. I’m really sorry that I overstepped, Cas. I wasn’t thinking.”

The words ‘it’s okay’ are on the tip of his tongue, but Castiel bites them back, because it’s not. “I forgive you,” he says instead, giving Dean a quick smile that feels a bit forced but hopefully gets the message across. “I just need some time. I liked tonight, and the way it made me feel, but I need to know what’s going on and be completely on board with things. It’s probably best if you leave, and if you still want to help me—“ _Not that Dean would, after the way Cas has freaked out, not now that he knows how broken he really is—_ “then we can get in touch again soon.”

Dean’s mouth pulls into a thin, upset line, and there’s a definite slump to his shoulders—but regardless of how he’s feeling, he nods again. “We can do that,” he says, his voice mostly steady but with a tiny shake that underlies it. He stands when Castiel does, follows him wordlessly towards the door. They pause while he pulls his shoes on, every movement slow and careful, as though he’s trying to hold himself together. For a moment, Castiel feels bad about reacting as strongly as he did—but it’s not something that he can help.

“I’m sorry that tonight didn’t go the way you’d planned,” he says, once they’re face to face again.

Dean shrugs, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile that’s half amused, half bitterly sad. “I kinda knew the risk I was running when I turned up. Didn’t think it would backfire on me like this after how well I thought you’d handled it, but…” He lifts his hands, fingers spread, then lets them fall back to his sides as if to say, _what can you do?_

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Sorry that he’d freaked out, sorry that his rejection is clearly having some kind of effect on Dean, sorry that they can’t continue this evening because of his stupid brain and biology.

He gets one last, sad smile. “It’s alright, Cas,” Dean tells him, and then he turns to leave, reaching for the door handle.

It’s only once the door is halfway open and Dean is halfway out that Castiel speaks up, giving voice to the question that has been rattling around in his chest (in his heart) all this time.

“Dean… why are you helping me like this?”

“Because…” Dean pauses, looking down at the floor before slowly raising his gaze up to meet Castiel’s. It’s a look of vulnerability, of openness, one that makes Castiel’s breath hitch with its intensity.

“Because I really like you,” he says finally. “I’ve really liked you ever since you walked into the shop, and I know you like me too, because you were flirting with me up until you saw the mark on my arm. And it might be fucking selfish, but I don’t care, because I want you to look at me without seeing  _sub_. Without seeing someone that you can fuck up or hurt or break. Because you _won’t_.” He inhales shakily, fingers curling around his left wrist. “And even if things don’t work out between us, I want you to be able to have that with whoever you choose to be with in life, and not have to rule out a whole group of people just because you’re worried that there’s something broken and unfixable inside you. I want to show you that _that’s not you_.”

Dean’s words echo in the space between them, reverberating through Castiel’s head even in the silence of the moment.

 _That’s not you_.

Castiel’s heart aches with an emotion he can’t place. He feels as though he could shatter apart beneath the slightest touch.

It’s a few moments before he can manage to form his thoughts into words, and his voice cracks unsteadily around the first syllable. “I like you too,” he says quietly. “But that _is_ who I am. I’m so broken that I… I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I don’t know that I’m _ever_ going to be able to do this.”

Dean watches him, emotion in his green eyes, his throat bobbing around a swallow. Slowly, he lets his hand fall from the door handle, half-turns back towards Castiel and takes a careful step that closes the distance between them. Cas’s breath hitches, and Dean’s eyes drop to his lips. Every single one of his movements are slow, deliberate, letting Castiel know exactly what he’s doing as he lifts his hand to Castiel’s face, curves fingers gently around his jaw.

They’re so close that their breaths are mingling in the barest of space that remains between them. There’s a question in Dean’s eyes, a giving of control. _It is yours if you want it_ , is what that look says. He will not push.

Castiel does not let himself think. He follows his heart, not his head, and closes his eyes.

The kiss, when it comes, is soft. Reverent. Barely more than a brush of lips and enough to leave Cas’s skin tingling even after Dean has pulled away. Dean’s thumb brushes lightly over Castiel’s cheekbone, just once, and then his hand falls away too.

When Castiel opens his eyes, he finds Dean watching him once more. He smiles, quick and a little bit sad. “If you can’t,” he says, “that’s okay, Cas.”

And then he turns, and he leaves, closing the door of Castiel’s apartment carefully behind him.

Castiel listens to the sound of his receding footsteps, standing in his apartment with tingling lips and a weighted heart for much longer than the time it takes for the footsteps to fade into silence.

He cleans up the kitchen. Plates into the sink, to be washed and dried and returned to their cupboards. Benches wiped down, table cleared of the remains of their meal. Ingredients collected up and put back in their proper homes.

The cast iron skillet still sits on the stove. Castiel wraps his fingers around the handle and picks it up, holding it for a moment in the air. He feels the heft of it, remembers the way Dean’s fingers had brushed over his. The warm proximity of his body, standing slightly too-close. Intoxicating.

He leaves the skillet on the benchtop and fills it with oil to let it soak, leaving it to deal with in the morning. It’s all he can do right now, as the rest of his last reserves of energy drain out of him. He wants to keep cleaning, knows that that will help settle him at least a little bit, but suddenly he just feels bone weary.

It had been such a nice evening, _perfect_ even, and now Castiel feels as though he’s been knocked so far off-kilter that he doesn’t have any hope of finding his normal again. He’s shaky, unbalanced, and his thoughts keep returning, over and over, to Dean’s words— _you already have_ …

And to Dean’s kiss.

He lifts his fingers, touches his lips almost reverentially. That one stolen moment, that brush of lips… he knows now what it feels like, to kiss Dean, and he doesn’t know if that is information he will ever be able to forget. It is more likely that he will carry it on his lips forever, evidence of this man who has walked into Castiel’s life and turned every part of it upside down.

It feels so tempting, while he’s in this off-kilter state, to call Dean back. He could do it, he knows, and Dean would come. He could be greedy, and irresponsible, but he knows that it would only hurt both of them. Castiel needs time to recover after tonight, and he can’t be what Dean needs him to be, in the way that Dean wants him, right now. He can’t be a lover, and he certainly can’t be a Dom.

He can only be Cas. Broken, fucked-up Cas, but...

Cas who just might be willing to try, with the right person.

With Dean.

Not tonight, though. Tonight is for a long sleep, for the regaining of thoughts and energy, for the healing to begin. Tonight, he will try not to think of Dean Winchester with his sharp tattoos and his soft words, soft hands, soft lips.

It will be impossible, but he will try nonetheless.

A deep-seated exhaustion pulls Castiel away from the sink where he has been standing, staring down at the pan half-filled with oil. He makes his way out of the kitchen where he cooked with Dean, past the table where he ate dinner with Dean, not looking over at the front door where Dean kissed him. He steps into his bedroom, where Dean has not entered except in thought, and in longing. This place, at least, (for now), is safe.

Cas doesn’t bother with showering, or brushing his teeth, or any of his usual nightly routine. Instead, he strips out of his clothes with heavy hands and drops them to the floor, then crawls beneath the covers of his bed.

Sleep takes a long time to come, his mind replaying that single kiss over and over again.

The next morning, he wakes with a slightly clearer head, but not by much. Thankfully, it’s a Sunday today, so he has another free day to keep to himself and try and sort out whatever the fuck it is that’s been going on in his head since Dean left. On one hand, Dean had tricked him into some form of dominating role while they’d been making dinner, and in Cas’s very own home.

On the other hand… it had felt good. It had _worked_. And that _kiss_.

He shakes his head and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t know _why_ Dean had decided to kiss him, but the careful way he’d done it, soft and quiet like the dawn breaking over the horizon, has left a lasting imprint on Cas that he can’t shake.

Castiel lies in bed until the itch beneath his skin refuses to be ignored, then gets up. He showers, getting rid of the grime of the previous day and letting the water calm his thoughts, just for a few minutes. It does help—until he gets out, gets dressed, and makes his way through to the kitchen, where the skillet from last night still sits inconspicuously in the sink.

The first thing he does is scrub at it until it’s spotlessly clean, then stash it back up in its spot in the cupboard. Out of sight, out of mind. Breakfast is a bowl of cereal, quick and easy and not something that requires ingredients or actual cooking skill. He’s not really feeling up to that this morning.

The rest of Sunday follows much the same pattern. He bums around at home, keeping to himself as he cleans and catches up on his TV shows and does a little bit of work stuff when his documentaries start to get a little tedious. It’s only when the sun is beginning to set that he ventures out of his apartment, running down the block with his backpack to the nearest grocery store to stock up on some staples, and walking the rest of the way home.

Throughout it all, his phone stays with him. It would be so easy to call Dean or text him, or get in contact with him in some way. It’s so _tempting_. But he needs distance, and he may be shit at acknowledging what he needs, especially when it comes to any sort of relationship, but avoidance is (unsurprisingly) something he’s pretty decent at.

So he goes the entire day without contacting Dean. It’s hard—he’s almost always on Castiel’s mind in some way—but he does it. By the end of the evening, when he’s lying in bed once more with a book in the hopes that it’ll distract him and lull him to sleep, his phone stays dark and silent. The whole day, he hasn’t messaged Dean… and Dean hasn’t messaged him either.

On the one hand, it’s good that Dean has respected his wishes and stayed away. On the other…

Foolishly, part of Castiel kind of _wanted_ Dean to contact him. After all the emotions of last night, it’s hard to totally distance himself again.

It’s something that he has to deal with, though. He needs to keep his distance, for now at least, until he figures out what he should do.

He reaches out, turns his phone over so that the black screen is facing down on his nightstand, then flips over to the next page of his book and tries to focus on the words in front of him.

When he wakes early on Monday morning, he’s feeling much more settled. Having had some time to think about his situation with Dean, and with the distraction of a new work day looming, it’s much easier to settle himself from the moment he gets out of bed. Easier, even, than it has been in weeks.

He can’t help but wonder if it has anything to do with how Dean had acted on Saturday night, and the way he’d been led into… _fulfilling his role_.

He’s still not sure how he feels about everything.

But now isn’t the time to be thinking about it. Now, he needs to water his plants, go through his morning yoga routine, and make himself breakfast—not to mention shower, and pick out his clothes, and make sure everything he might need for the day is packed safely into his work bag. It’s quite the little routine, and all in all, it keeps him busy right up until he steps out the front door of his apartment.

He very pointedly does not linger in the spot where Dean kissed him, instead pushing on without letting his mind dwell. That’s the last thing he needs right now.

His phone keeps him occupied as he makes his way to work, and then he’s buzzing himself into the staff area at the museum, and suddenly he finds himself with an entirely new set of worries to focus on. They’ve got a few new collections coming in for display, and so he and Anna are going to have their hands full for the next while—especially with the way Zachariah seems to be hovering, sending Castiel emails about the different projects. The way he’s CC-ing Anna in instead of addressing them to her makes him feel faintly unwell, but he’s got way too much on his plate right now to be thinking too deeply about that.

The day passes quickly, rushed and overwhelming, and Castiel barely has time to think about what he’s going to eat for lunch and when he’s going to have time to go to the bathroom, let alone about everything that’s been going on between him and Dean. Before he knows it, he’s signing out again (late, which is really no surprise to anyone) and making his way home once more.

Back in his apartment, he orders takeout and collapses onto his couch. He’s too tired to expend much brain energy over worrying about his situation, and he vaguely remembers having left his phone on the kitchen counter, which is just way too far away for him to be bothered getting up retrieving it. Texting Dean is out of the question, then. By the time the food arrives, he’s idly enraptured by an ocean documentary. He eats his Indian food, stores the leftovers in the fridge, then collects his phone and makes his way to bed.

He’s asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, and his phone stays silent.

It’s not until mid-morning the next day that Castiel finally has the time (and the thought) to contact Dean.

Anna is up in Zachariah’s office, straightening out the last few details for the new exhibition pieces, and so Castiel has a rare twenty minutes to himself. Unlike yesterday, he’s been thinking about Dean a lot more—wondering what he’s been doing, how he’s been feeling after Saturday night.

Does he think about Castiel as much as Castiel thinks about him?

He finds himself starting a new text to Dean. They’ve only ever called, so his chain with Dean is empty, and somehow, it only increases the pressure. What should he say? There’s so much _to_ say that he doesn’t really know where to start. Should he talk about Saturday? Or ask what Dean is doing right now?

He types out a message, then deletes it, then repeats the cycle several times over. Eventually, he settles on:

_> > Do you want to get lunch today?_

Castiel hits the _send_ button before he can second guess himself any more, then immediately locks his phone and sets it face down on his desk. Out of sight, out of mind. Now he can focus on replying to some of his emails while he waits for Anna to return from upstairs.

His phone buzzes.

Already? Castiel raises his eyebrows and looks down at his phone. Had he imagined that?

He reaches out and turns it over; the screen display is only lit for a few seconds before it turns itself off again, but it’s long enough for Castiel to see the message notification. Heart beating a little faster, he unlocks his phone and taps on the notification.

 _< < sure, is 1pm okay? you choose the place_.

It hadn’t even been a minute between Castiel sending the text and Dean replying, and he’s not quite sure what to make of that. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up—doesn’t even know if he _should_ get them up. He hasn’t fully decided on what he wants to do yet.

Still, he does know that he _does_ want to meet up with Dean today, so he thinks for a moment, then texts back.

 _> > 1pm sounds great. There’s a cafe near my work where we can meet, I’ll text you the address_.

After Castiel hits send, he counts the seconds until Dean’s reply comes through, just out of idle curiosity. Only twenty-six pass until his phone is buzzing with another incoming message.

_< < awesome, see you then :)_

…Well then.

Cas can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. Dean seems keen to see him, if the speed of his replies and the smiley face are anything to go by. Some of his worries dissipate, and as he sets his phone aside and returns to his work, he soon realizes that he’s _anticipating_ his meeting with Dean. He doesn’t know what’s going to come of it, but… he can only hope it’ll be good.

Dean is already at the café when Castiel arrives, sitting at a table in the corner of the establishment that is a decent distance away from the other patrons without being cramped or uncomfortably private. He’s idly reading through a menu, fingertips running backwards and forwards over one worn edge as he surveys his options. Castiel watches him for a moment or two, then steps forward.

Immediately, Dean’s eyes are drawn upwards. When he meets Castiel’s gaze, his eyes go wide, and he fumbles to his feet.

“Cas!”

It’s hard not to feel warm at the greeting, and Castiel lets himself smile as he approaches the table. “Hello, Dean,” he says, and it takes a moment or two before Dean seems to realize that he’s standing up.

He rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat, sitting back down as Castiel takes a seat opposite him. For a moment, they just watch each other across the table; heavy words hanging unspoken in the air between them.

“How’ve you been?” Dean asks, once the silence has stretched out longer than he must deem comfortable—as though it’s been weeks since they saw each other, rather than just a matter of days.

Castiel considers his answer. “I’ve been… okay.” Simple, but fitting—he hasn’t been falling apart like he had been before their dinner on Saturday night, but he’s also not the best that he’s ever been, constantly plagued by thoughts of Dean and the possibilities of their relationship. “How about you?”

Now that Cas is looking closer, he begins to notice just how _tired_ Dean looks. His shoulders look a little slumped, and there are bags under his eyes that certainly hadn’t been there on Saturday. His brows crease in concern, and he leans forward across the table.

Dean must realize that he’s under Castiel’s scrutiny, because he makes a conscious effort to smile and lift his shoulders in a façade of a more energetic version of himself. “Just peachy,” he says, with a half-grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

All it takes is a single quirk of Cas’s eyebrow and half a minute of patient waiting before Dean breaks.

“Alright, I, uh.” He scrubs a hand over his face, then looks down at the table, avoidant. At least he’s talking, though, so Castiel will take what he can get. “I’ve been struggling a little bit over the past few days, I guess. I don’t do well with disappointing people.” The _especially people I like_ hangs in the air, unspoken, but Castiel can infer it easily enough from the expression on his face.

There’s a lot to unpack in even that small confession, but Castiel’s mind fixates on just one small thing.

“Struggling?” he asks quietly, his brows creasing in concern. He hadn’t thought about how kicking Dean out of his apartment might affect him—hadn’t even paused to consider whether that was a _possibility_ , that Saturday night might have affected him just as much as it’s been affecting Castiel over the last few days.

Dean shrugs his shoulder, waves a hand nonchalantly. There’s a tiredness behind his eyes. “It’s fine, Cas, it’s… sub stuff, I guess, kinda similar to what you’ve been dealing with. I know how to cope with it, though. Plus, we didn’t come here to talk about me.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. “How have you been? I—I’m sorry again for Saturday night, by the way.”

They’ll return to Dean ‘struggling’ at some point, if Castiel has anything to say about it, but right now he can tell that Dean wants to move on from it, so he lets him shift the conversation on. “I’ve been… alright,” he says slowly. He considers his answer. “I felt good after Saturday night, in that the way I’ve been _off_ for the past few months disappeared a little, but… I still didn’t really know what to do about _us_. There’s so much I don’t know about how all this works, Dean, and I’m still not convinced that I… that I can _do_ it without bringing out a part of me that I’m afraid of.”

Dean’s mouths twists sympathetically, and he leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. “I know, Cas. And if you don’t want to go down this route, it’s fine. I’m not gonna push you. But I really do think that I can help you… you know, get comfortable with it a bit more. I can show you that domming isn’t something to be afraid of—it doesn’t have to be about pain or humiliation. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be about sex. You’ve already felt better from the last two times you’ve taken a bit more of a dominating role between us, and I can help you bring that out.” He reaches for his glass of water, and spins it idly between his fingers to give himself something to focus on. When he next speaks, he keeps his gaze low, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Like I said,” he murmurs, “I like you. I really think I can help. I _want_ to help.”

There’s an honesty and an earnestness in his eyes, and Castiel can’t help but feel warmed by it. He has Inias, and he knows Inias would do anything for him, but apart from that, there’s not really anyway else that cares about him as strongly as this. And with Inias being both his best friend, and unpresented, having him help with this isn’t an option.

“You’re right…” he says slowly—not letting himself overthink his words, just letting them come out as they are. “I need someone to help me with this so I don’t keep spiraling. And I know we haven’t known each other long, but—but I _trust_ you. I don’t even know where I’d begin looking for someone to help without you, and I think I need to try doing this with you. I…” He runs his fingers through his hair, closes his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them, he sees the edge of his tattoo peeking out from beneath the cuff of his sleeve, and it gives him that last push to voice the thoughts that have been circling in his mind ever since Dean first brought this up.

“I don’t know how it’s going to go. How I’m going to cope. But… I’d like to try. If that’s okay with you.”

Dean has been listening intently, his gaze fixed on Castiel and expression serious, but now he breaks into a wide smile. There’s hope and excitement in his eyes, as well as pure, well-intentioned happiness that makes Castiel very glad for the decision he’s made. He’s pretty sure that he’s in safe hands with Dean.

“Fuck,” Dean says, still grinning, “you have no idea how happy I am to hear that. I hated seeing you struggling and not being able to help, and I can’t wait to show you everything that a good Dom/sub relationship can be. It can be whatever we want it to, whatever suits us, and I’m really fucking looking forward to figuring that out.”

And now, somehow, the prospect of jumping into this doesn’t seem quite as scary as it had a week ago, or even a few days ago. Not now that he has Dean by his side. Not now that he trusts Dean not to let him down.

“I am too,” he confesses with a shy smile, “I just… need you to be patient with me. I don’t know much, and this is so out of my comfort zone that I…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Doesn’t _need_ to. Dean nudges his knee underneath the table, then presses them together, warm and supportive. “I know.” He smiles. “I’ve got you, Cas. Don’t worry.”

And then, as if on cue, Castiel’s stomach rumbles. Dean tips his head back and laughs, the fragile moment broken, forgotten. “Fair enough, man. How about we actually order some food, and then we can talk about it more?”

Cas nudges Dean’s knee under the table again and smiles; a smile just for Dean.

“Deal.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, my loves! Thank you to [captainhaterade](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com) for beta-reading.
> 
> Enjoy!

Castiel goes home that night, and he reads.

If he’s going into this… this _arrangement_ with Dean, then he wants to be educated. He wants to know as much about what might happen as he can, and that means picking up the books that he’d turned away from so many years ago.

It feels odd, pulling up articles that he’d previously closed when they’d told him there was no way to escape his biology, because here he is so much later… giving into it.

He tries to ignore that feeling, though, and focus just on the information that he needs.

It turns out that Dean is right; there’s much more to the dynamic of domination and submission than what he’d thought there was. So many subsets, different aspects and different levels of involvement… He flips past the parts that are too heavy, that remind him too much of a grass-covered grave in Illinois, and tries to focus instead on the parts that interest him. But there’s just so much that it’s almost overwhelming, and after an hour, he sets aside his laptop and scrubs his hands over his face.

What the hell is he getting into? How do people even _learn_ how to do this? How do they figure out what they like?

Before he can second guess himself, Castiel reaches for his phone and opens his conversation with Dean.

_> > What do you like?_

The ten minutes it takes for Dean to reply feel like the longest ten minutes of his life. Castiel checks his Facebook, scrolls through Instagram, opens up his email account just to check that no one from work is trying to contact him at eight-thirty on a Tuesday night. All to distract himself from that text.

Is it too much? Too personal? Or maybe the opposite—maybe Dean’s laughing at his inexperience now, at the Dom who doesn’t even know where to _start_ with all this. Everything he’s ever seen in media has told him that he should be the one taking the lead, but here he is, begging Dean, the sub, for help. Is he doing this all wrong?

His phone vibrates. Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat, and he scrambles for it.

_< < uhh, you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, Cas. I like a lotta stuff._

Oh fuck, oh no. He tabs over to the list of kinks that he’d found over half an hour ago but has been avoiding, and quickly scans through it. Half the terminology he doesn’t even know where to _begin_ trying to understand, and after a few minutes of staring blankly at the list, he types out a new text with shaking fingers and a tightness in his chest that he hasn’t felt all evening.

_> > I… I don’t know where to start, Dean. I’m feeling very overwhelmed by a lot of this. I apologize for being so inexperienced._

This time, Dean’s replies appear in a matter of seconds.

_< < oh fuck Cas are you talking about which kinks I like? holy shit dude, I thought you were asking about my favorite books or smth_

_< < I can definitely tell you about my favorite kinks just gimme a sec to stop laughing_

_< < also you don’t have to apologize for being inexperienced, dude, that’s what I’m here to help with_

The tightness in Castiel’s chest dissipates, and for a few seconds he just stares at the messages, processing them and making sure they’re really real. When they’re still there after a few seconds, he grins in relief—Dean doesn’t think he’s a fuck up for not knowing half these terms. Thank God.

_> > I didn’t realize just how open-ended that question was, don’t laugh at me._

_< < you’ve gotta admit, it’s funny. what a pair of dumbasses we are_

_< < alright, favorite kinks…_

_< < I really fucking like being praised, as you, uh, mighta noticed. and manhandled. which are two things you already do really well. I like being tied up, and teased and stuff_

_< < this feels kinda weird over text, can we talk face to face instead??_

Castiel’s face feels hot as he recalls the moments in the tattoo parlor when he’d complimented Dean’s work and Dean had blushed, or gotten tongue tied, or the way he’d always been a little bit in Castiel’s way while they’d been cooking. Just simple things, but looking back on them, it had felt _good_ to praise Dean. To guide him with his words, or a carefully placed touch.

Is this really what dominating can be?

He runs a hand over his jaw, caught up in his thoughts for a few moments, then focuses on that last message.

_> > I’m sorry, of course. I got a bit ahead of myself, all the information I’ve found online is a little overwhelming. We can meet on the weekend and talk more about… all of this?_

_< < sure, Cas. there’s a lot of info out there, but you don’t need to worry about most of it, okay? we can talk about the important stuff soon :)_

_< < how does Saturday night sound?_

Castiel smiles, excitement already thrumming through his veins at the thought of meeting with Dean again and getting to explore more of what they have together. Dean is a fantastic guy, and that kiss had been incredible. If they get to recreate that on Saturday night… he certainly won’t be complaining.

_> > Saturday night sounds perfect. I’ll see you then._

When Dean turns up to Castiel’s apartment once more on a Saturday night, Castiel has been stress cleaning and cooking for three hours. His apartment is spotless from top to bottom—especially his bedroom, this time, because who  _knows_ what could happen tonight—and he’s got a casserole and vegetables and potatoes slowly cooking. There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge, along with a bottle of sparkling water, just in case they shouldn’t be drinking wine and Dean is a guest in his house (not to mention someone he’s _interested_ in) so it’s not like he’s going to offer him plain water straight from the tap.

The knock on the front door comes, and Castiel’s thoughts stop ricocheting around inside his head like pinballs. If anything, it feels as though his brain has just completely stopped. Nothing. Nada.

And all because Dean is outside his apartment right now, and they’re going to talk about _kinks_.

He’s so fucking far out of his depth with all this that it’s not even funny.

But he wants to try—wants to try to pursue something with Dean, wants to try not to be a fucked up, awful Dom like his mom was, wants to try to work _with_ his biology instead of against it. So instead of hightailing it out of his apartment via the fire escape like the (mostly) irrational, panicking part of his brain is telling him to, he takes a deep breath, forces himself to calm, and makes his way through his apartment to the front door.

Dean is standing in the hallway, a takeout bag in his hand and looking devastating in a leather jacket, jeans, and boots, but the thing that really makes Castiel weak at the knees is the way Dean’s expression changes as they make eye contact. His eyes soften, his smile widens, and he looks _genuinely_ excited to see him.

“Heya, Cas,” he says, in that smooth voice that just captivates Castiel in an instant. “How are you doin’?”

For a second, Castiel thinks about lying. It would be so easy to say ‘fine,’ just a little white lie for the sake of appearances. But he wants to be honest with Dean, _needs_ to be honest for this thing between them to work, and so he shrugs one shoulder and gives Dean an embarrassed smile.

“My whole apartment is spotless and I’ve spent the last few hours cooking to try and distract myself so I don’t think about tonight.” He rubs the back of his neck, his lips twisting wryly. “Not that I’m not looking forward to it, I just… don’t know what to expect. I didn’t want to drive myself crazy thinking about it.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, his smile fading into worry. “Cas, if you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to—“

“I _want_ to.” Castiel cuts him off quickly, and gives him a reassuring smile. “Really. I’d tell you if I wasn’t. We’re communicating with each other now, remember?”

His last words carry the hint of a tease, and Dean rolls his eyes fondly.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Yes, we’re communicating, I’m not gonna spring anything on you this time. Anything that happens is gonna be totally clear for both of us. Cool?” He shifts his weight between his feet, and Castiel knows his anticipatory feeling. Can feel it thrumming through him right now.

“Cool,” he murmurs, lips curving up and heart pounding in his chest. “Would you like to come in?”

They move awkwardly around each other as Dean steps over the threshold, trading shy smiles as they get used to sharing space again. Dean is clearly paying attention to something else as he pulls off his boots, however, and when he turns back to Castiel, there’s a glint of something in his eyes. “Dinner smells awesome, Cas. Do you have dessert?”

How had he forgotten dessert? Is that something Dean had expected from him? His stomach sinks, and his brows crease in a small frown. “I—no, I don’t, should I—“

“Ah, fuck, Cas, don’t look like that, I didn’t mean—“ Dean holds up his bag. “I was only asking because I brought some stuff we can eat after our meal, is all. Chocolate and fruit and some other things. Is that okay?”

Castiel lets out a relieved sigh and shakes his head. “Yes, that’s fine,” he tells Dean, his voice wry. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t give me a heart attack next time you bring me chocolate, though. I thought I’d messed up.”

In the dim lighting that shines through from the outside corridor, Castiel can see Dean’s cheeks turn pink. “Sorry, Cas,” he says, as Castiel closes his front door and they make their way towards the kitchen and the smell of cooking food. “Didn’t really think that one through, my bad. I’ll make it up to you.” He half turns, and Castiel catches a glimpse of a roguish grin. His stomach flips, and his nerves jitter in anticipation of what could come later tonight.

Dean pulls a box out of the takeout bag and slides it into Castiel’s fridge; the bag itself in left on the counter nearby. Whatever is in there must be their dessert, and Castiel is burning with curiosity and hunger.

As soon as he tries to gravitate casually towards the bag, however, Dean appears in his way. He leans, relaxed, against the countertop, and gives Castiel a smug smile. “You peeking there, Cas? It’s a surprise, busybody, stay out.”

Cas squints at Dean, then at the bag, then at Dean again. “I was under the impression that I was the Dom,” he ventures, testing the waters. It’s all just playing around, right? “Aren’t I the one meant to be giving the orders? I could just tell you to show me what’s in the bag.”

Dean’s eyes widen; the smile disappears from his face. “I—um,” he stammers, clearly thrown by Castiel’s response. It’s oddly satisfying to see Dean off guard and flustered when he’s usually pretty collected. “You—you _could_ , yeah, and I’d probably obey you, but that’d ruin the surprise, right? And you… you wouldn’t…” His cheeks have gone pink now, and when his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, Castiel is reminded of the kiss they shared a week ago, in Castiel’s very apartment.

 _Fuck_.

“I suppose you’re right,” he muses, trying to hide how off-guard the memory has made him. Being around Dean feels like being stuck in a hurricane—sometimes he’s in the eye of the storm, where it’s calm and quiet, and sometimes…

Sometimes it’s all he can do just to hold on and see what the hell happens next.

Dean is still watching him, leaning back against the counter. It’s casual, but there’s a tension beneath, an anticipation that Castiel is very familiar with. “I usually _am_ right,” he jokes, lips twitching up into a smile, but that _something_ is still there between them, heady and intoxicating.

The kitchen feels warmer than it had before as Castiel takes a half-step forward, into Dean’s space. “Once we’re done with dinner,” he murmurs, ignoring Dean’s smart comment and reveling in the hitch in Dean’s breath, “I would like to see what is in those boxes.”

“Is that an order?” Dean’s voice is deeper, a little rough. Castiel watches his throat bob as he swallows. It feels as though he’s on autopilot, not quite thinking, when he says;

“Yes, Dean. That is an order.”

Dean bites his lip, but doesn’t otherwise move, the two of them perfectly still in this single moment. Castiel doesn’t want to break this spell that they seem to have ended up in, caught in each other’s orbits. The way Dean looks—captivated by Castiel’s words, his presence—is stunning, and he wants to preserve it instead of breaking it, but he doesn’t know how. He’s just _playing_ at being a Dom right now, it feels like, but for Dean to respond as though he’s hanging on Castiel’s every word, every breath… he must be doing _something_ right.

The oven timer goes off, and the moment shatters.

They both jump, Castiel stumbling back a step and Dean looking as though he’s been shocked, looking around in the direction of the sound. Cas is quick to turn the timer off, and chuckles awkwardly as he gestures to the oven. “I’m sorry, I, uh, I forgot I’d turned that on. Are you ready to eat, or—?”

Dean gives Castiel a quick grin and shrugs one shoulder, his previous air of fascination all but disappeared. “I’m always ready to eat, Cas, c’mon. Stupid question. You need a hand with anything?”

As a matter of fact, he does—Castiel enlists Dean’s help in pulling the casserole and potatoes out of the oven, setting them aside for a moment while he grabs their plates and cutlery. He really should have been a good host and had all this ready before Dean arrived, but he’s been thrown for such a loop today that it’s a miracle his meal has made it through unscathed.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, as they scoop meat and vegetables onto their respective plates and then swap them.

Dean shakes his head, ladling the remaining casserole onto his plate. “Nah, I’m good. Just water for me tonight, but thanks. If we’re gonna be talking about the heavy stuff, I think I’d rather be sober.”

God, he’d almost forgotten that the whole reason Dean had come over was so that they could talk about… about what _kinks_ Dean likes. What they should explore.

“Probably a good call,” he says quietly, as he finishes serving the potatoes onto his plate. They make their way over to the dining table in silence, though they never stray far from each other’s side. Castiel is achingly reminded of a week prior, when they had sat here and talked so amiably, before everything had felt like it fell apart. This time, hopefully, they’ll be on the same page, and things will go smoother.

They take their seats at the table, and for a second Castiel wonders whether he should have put out a candle, or bought flowers or something (not that his rubber plant doesn’t make a nice centerpiece for the table). Would that have improved the atmosphere? Made it more romantic? Easier for them to talk?

But then Dean’s foot finds his under the table, his ankle pressed gently against Cas’s lower calf, and he smiles across the table at Castiel. “You alright?” he asks, his voice low and quiet. Intimate.

Castiel exhales slowly and tries to let himself relax. “I think so,” he says honestly. “Just… I don’t know. I don’t know where to start with all this, I guess. It’s a bit overwhelming, considering it’s not something I’ve ever done before.”

Dean nods in understanding as he scoops casserole and crispy potatoes onto his fork. “Totally understandable, dude. We can start with the non-sexual stuff first, I think, because that’s gonna make it an easier transition for you—not that we ever have to change to the sexual stuff if you don’t want to, of course,” he adds in a hurry, his cheeks flushing. “I just, uh—I want to take it at your pace, you know? And not do things that you aren’t comfortable with.”

 _I want to take it at your pace_.

And there it is. It’s exactly what Castiel had been afraid of, that Dean would outstrip him, push him into things that _Dean_ is comfortable with but Castiel isn’t. And this… this promise that Dean will wait? Be patient? Be _understanding?_

It means the world.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says quietly. “I really appreciate that—more than you know. I can’t promise that I’m going to be good at any of this stuff, or be able to do half of it without, um, freaking out, but… I really want to try. So thank you for being patient with me.”

Dean smiles around his mouthful of food and gently nudges Cas’s foot under the table. “Of course, Cas. I wouldn’t do it any other way.” Then the look in his eye turns cheeky, curious, and he quirks his eyebrows at Castiel. “So. You still wanna know what I’m into?”

Castiel’s breath hitches, and he leans forward a little, dinner momentarily forgotten. “I—yes,” he breathes, because he doesn’t know how else to answer that question, because he’s _achingly_ curious to know what his options are. What Dean likes. Where the hell they’re going to _start_ with all this.

Slowly but surely, between bites of food and shared smiles, they talk. As Dean had said they would, they start with the non-sexual things. Dean likes being praised. He likes to be touched, and to kneel, and to be given instructions. He blushes when Castiel asks about cooking together again, now that he _knows_ what’s going on and can be an active participant, and says _yes_ , he’d like to do that again. Castiel files the information away for a later date.

By the time their food is finished, Castiel has a reasonably comprehensive list of things that Dean likes, and to his honest surprise, none of it is what he thought it would be. There are orders, yes, but it seems that Dean enjoys them, _thrives_ off knowing that he’s made Castiel happy. There’s nothing derogatory on the list, nothing that can hurt Dean, only things that (in Castiel’s inexperienced opinion) would make him feel… good.

It’s not the experience of domination he grew up with, and certainly not the image of a Dominant that his mother had presented.

Maybe, if he follows Dean’s lists of likes… maybe he can figure out a way not to be broken after all.

Their discussion weaves in and out of Dom/sub topics, and they keep talking until they’ve well and truly finished their meals, leaning across empty plates just to be in each other’s orbits. As they talk, though, and as the minutes tick by, Castiel begins to notice that Dean’s attention is not always fully on him.

Every now and then, Dean’s focus redirects. Only subtly, and probably not enough for Dean to notice that he’s doing it, but it doesn’t take Castiel long to catch on. Even as they talk, Dean’s leg shifts beneath the table, his lips curve up at the edges, and his gaze slides away, over to the kitchen and the bag from earlier that still sits innocuously on the countertop.

Whatever is in there, whatever Dean brought as their dessert, it’s clearly playing on his mind. And because it’s playing on _Dean’s_ mind, it begins to play on Castiel’s, too.

But now he has the chance to do something about that.

“Dean,” he says, pausing the flow of conversation and arching his eyebrow as Dean goes quiet. “You keep looking over at the kitchen, and I suspect that it has something to do with what you brought with you tonight. Is that correct?”

Dean’s eyes go wide, and his gaze darts over to the kitchen once more before he can catch himself. His throat bobs in a swallow, and he nods.

Castiel’s lips curl into a smile. “Well, I’m curious to see what you brought. Will you help me clear the table first, before dessert?”

There’s no hesitation; Dean is up like a shot, though his movements are careful as he stacks their plates and places the cutlery on top. Castiel can’t resist a chuckle as Dean beelines back over to the kitchen. “I did say ‘help me’, but alright. I can see when I’m not needed.”

His words make Dean pause, looking back over his shoulder guiltily from where he’s lowering the plates into the sink. Castiel waves a hand and stands up. “It’s fine, Dean. There wasn’t much to clear away anyway. Thank you for being proactive.”

His words clearly relax Dean, and the hint of a pleased smile curls his lips as he turns back to the sink and finishes tidying up. Castiel lingers by the table, watching him, until Dean half-opens the fridge door and looks back at Castiel to meet his gaze.

“You know it’s supposed to be a surprise, right?” he asks, his voice teasing and eyes bright. “If you watch me get everything ready, it’s not gonna be.”

He makes a compelling argument, but Castiel still narrows his eyes. _He’s_ the one who’s supposed to be in charge, isn’t he? But… it’s kind of nice to have Dean push back a little bit. This dynamic between them is two-sided—it’s not simply Castiel making demands of Dean. Besides, without the small dashes of attitude, Dean wouldn’t be the man Cas had been instantly captivated by the moment they’d met.

“You can prepare the dessert and bring it through to the living room,” he decides—still keeping control, but letting Dean have his small moment of pushback. Fucking hell, this is hard. “I’ll be waiting there, and we can eat our dessert while we watch Netflix— _not_ that anything other than watching and eating dessert will be happening, _Dean_ ,” he says pointedly, after Dean’s face lights up at the mention of Netflix and his lips form around the beginning of what was surely a _Netflix and chill_ joke.

Dean just grins, mock salutes, and turns back towards the fridge.

Castiel leaves him be to prepare everything, since he knows his way around Castiel’s kitchen by now, and makes his way through to his living room. His couch is wide and comfortable, and he sinks into one of the cushions with a sigh. Tonight has gone better than he’d expected, even if they haven’t quite gotten into the dominating side of things yet. It feels good to just spend time with Dean, and for both of them to be on the same page with everything.

He reaches for the remote and flicks idly between the options on Netflix. Nothing in particular catches his fancy, and he wonders if that’s because his attention, his focus, can’t be drawn away from the knowledge that Dean is still in his apartment and soon to return to Castiel’s side.

Only a few minutes pass before quiet footsteps catch Castiel’s attention. He glances up from his perusal of Netflix, and there’s Dean, standing in the doorway with a plate balanced on the flats of his hands. The food on it is carefully positioned and well-presented, and despite the meal they just finished, Cas’s stomach growls quietly at the sight of chocolate-dipped fruit and bite-sized pieces of pie. “So that’s what the big secret was about?” he asks with a smile, leaning back against the couch.

Dean looks down at the plate, then back up at Castiel, trying to gauge his reaction. “Yeah,” he says, shuffling his feet slightly against the carpeted floor. “I wanted to get something that most people like, and something we can eat… _easily_ , and so… chocolate, fruit, and pie.”

“It looks delicious, Dean,” Castiel tells him warmly, and it’s so rewarding to see the way Dean brightens even with that tiniest praise of his food choices. “How about you come over here so we can enjoy it together, and we can pick out a movie?”

It’s only a few moments before Dean is settling onto the couch beside him, pressing against Castiel’s side from shoulder to thigh in a way that is warm and distracting and everything Castiel could ever want on a quiet Saturday night like this one. The plate is settled onto Dean’s lap, but he doesn’t reach for any of the desserts on offer—just waits, and watches as Castiel flicks through the movie options.

Eventually, they settle on a movie at random, something named _The Salvation_ that they both seem reasonably interested in. Castiel also wants to focus on Dean, though, which is why he watches the sub as the opening credits roll. Dean still hasn’t touched any of the food—when he catches Cas looking, he raises an eyebrow, a half-smile curling his lips. “Somethin’ on your mind, Cas?”

 _Should he bring it up?_ Surely there’s a reason behind it, as to why Dean is still waiting. “It’s not important,” Castiel says with a small shake of his head. “Let’s just watch the movie.”

Castiel reaches for a chocolate-covered strawberry and pops it into his mouth, feeling the weight of Dean’s gaze for a few moments longer before he looks away, back towards the TV. Half a minute later, Dean reaches for a mini pie, and Castiel’s curiosity abates somewhat.

They get roughly halfway through the movie, pressed together on the couch and slowly making their way through the plate of dessert, when it happens. Castiel pauses with a pie halfway to his lips, distracted by a particularly thrilling scene, and after a few moments, he feels Dean gently nudge him with his shoulder.

When he looks over, Dean is watching him in the half-darkness. His tongue sweeps out across his bottom lip to wet it, and then, slowly, he parts his lips. Hopeful. Expectant. _Waiting_.

It takes Castiel a moment to translate his silent request, so distracted is he by Dean’s quiet beauty. His settled demeanor is so different from the man he’d met in the tattoo shop, but still with that underlying energy of _Dean_. He looks down to the pie in his hand, then slowly lifts it to Dean’s lips.

It’s the perfect size to be eaten in a single bite (which, he realizes now, was Dean’s ploy all along—clever sub) but the way Dean takes it from his fingers is delicate. His teeth bite into it, careful not to make contact with Cas’s fingers, and then he gently takes it from Castiel’s grip and into his mouth.

 _Fucking hell_.

“You didn’t mention that you liked to be handfed,” Castiel murmurs, his voice low and rough from disuse and the effects of the arousal beginning to curl through his veins. Dean shrugs, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he chews and swallows.

“I wanted to see if you’d figure it out.”

And he had. It had taken a tiny bit of prompting from Dean, but Castiel had figured it out, and…

And he’d _liked_ it.

It feels so intimate, so quietly powerful. Something curls deep in his gut, a feeling of _right_ and of _contentment_. Wordlessly, he reaches for a chocolate-covered blueberry and holds it out for Dean; an offering.

This time, Dean’s smile is wider. When he takes the berry from Castiel’s fingers, he’s no less careful, but this time his tongue swirls teasingly around Cas’s fingertips before he takes the berry and pulls away.

“Jesus Christ,” Castiel mutters under his breath, and Dean winks as he chews his prize.

The night draws on in such a way; Castiel feeding Dean pies and pieces of fruit while definitely not being as focused on the movie as he had been before. The more he concentrates on Dean, though, the more he starts to notice behaviors that are a little… strange. Shifting his weight, readjusting his position on the couch, fingertips toying with the hem of his shirt.

After a few minutes, Castiel decides that he’s had enough.

“Dean.”

Dean goes still, his gaze snapping up to Castiel’s. There’s confusion in his expression, his head tilted slightly to the side. “What’s up?”

“Is that where you’d most like to be right now?”

Dean blinks, looks down at himself. His mouth opens, then closes, like he’s making a realization. “No,” he says quietly, shifting his feet. His knee bumps into Castiel’s.

Cas reaches over and takes the plate of food, almost all gone, and rests it on his lap. “Then show me where you would like to be.”

A few moments pass—quiet, electrically charged and full of anticipation—and then Dean shifts, sliding off the couch and onto his knees on the ground. He lowers his gaze, lashes fluttering, and, after a moment of hesitation, presses against Castiel’s calf.

 _Oh_.

“I see,” Castiel says quietly. _Dean had said he likes to kneel._ His brain short-circuits a little at the sight—Dean on his knees, pressing against Castiel’s leg as a point of contact. _Submissive_. There’s so much he wants to say, or to ask, but instead he simply says, “Is the carpet enough cushioning on your knees?”

“It’s fine,” Dean murmurs, resting his chin on Castiel’s knee as he looks back. “I’d like it if you kept feeding me, though.” There’s a smile curling his lips, and something pleased, _relieved_ , about his expression. His eyes are soft, crinkling at the corners.

“Bossy,” Castiel mutters with a grin, but reaches for the last pie nonetheless. When he holds it out to Dean, the sub is much less shy about curling his tongue around Cas’s fingers, and once he’s taken it from Castiel’s hand, he rests his cheek against his knee once more.

On impulse, Castiel reaches out and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair—lightly at first, then with a little more pressure when Dean arches up into his touch and makes a pleased sound. It’s surprising how satisfying it is to discover the things that Dean likes, and to be successful in making him feel good. Castiel allows himself a tiny, happy smile. “Is that okay?” he asks, barely audible over the sounds of the movie.

Dean nods, lazily and without taking his cheek off Cas’s leg. He winds his arm around Castiel’s calf, and Castiel continues to pet his fingers through Dean’s hair, and that’s where they stay.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I was not expecting this chapter to get away from me like it did. I had this stuff planned for a few chapters down the track, but then Cas went and derailed all my plans. What can you do? Thanks as always to [captainhaterade](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com) and [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for whipping this chapter into shape with their beta-ing wisdom <3
> 
> Enjoy!

For the next few days, Castiel feels as though he’s walking on air.

That night with Dean had been perfect. They’d continued to watch the movie together, though he can barely remember what it had been about. He’d just been so focused on Dean—letting himself get lost in his presence, his touch, the way he leaned into Castiel’s hand every time he ran his fingers through his hair. It had been  _exquisite_ , so much so that when the movie had ended, he hadn’t wanted to move.

If _that_ was dominating, that easy, quiet coexistence… what has he been doing all these years, shutting himself away? He’d _never_ known this had been an option. He’d just shied away from it altogether.

But now he knows.

He’d wanted to kiss Dean so badly as they’d slowly untangled themselves from their positions on (or next to) the couch. Dean had been drowsy, touch-drunk, his gaze warm and his hands wandering. He likes to touch, and to _be_ touched, as Castiel is quickly finding out.

Castiel had walked him to the door, a hand hovering lightly over the small of his back. In the low light, lips parted and lashes fluttering over cheekbones, the temptation had almost been too much, but he’d resisted. Whatever it is between them… he wants to take it slow. He’d felt _good_ , and he doesn’t want to jeopardize that. Dean is the expert. If it’s suitable, if it’s _time_ , Castiel is sure that Dean will let him know.

He had left that night with a murmured goodbye, a lingering touch to Castiel’s wrist, and there had been a promise in his gaze of _more_. Of a _next time_.

And so Castiel has been flying high, reliving his memories of that night and the steady weight of Dean’s submission against his calf.

It gets to the point where even his coworkers begin to notice a change in him, however small. He’s a little more laid back, looser. He doesn’t need to keep his desk quite so organized. He stops to talk to people occasionally, instead of keeping to himself.

Inias _definitely_ notices.

“So, Winchester, huh?”

He shoots Castiel a grin from where he’s standing by the stove, one that’s teasing and playful but that carries an underlayer of sincerity.

It doesn’t stop him from waggling his eyebrows like an idiot, though.

“What _about_ him?” Castiel asks pointedly. He folds his arms across his chest and leans a hip against the counter where he’s been chopping vegetables for dinner. Inias might be prying, but that doesn’t mean that Cas can’t have some fun with him.

Inias gestures with his spatula, brandishing it accusingly at Castiel. “You know what I mean,” he says, rolling his eyes playfully. “You told me you were going to give it another go, and that he was coming over for dinner again, and now you’re… like this.”

“Like what?”

Inias sets the spatula down beside the stove and mimics Castiel by slouching against the counter and folding his arms loosely. “You’re all zen and shit,” he accuses, waving his finger in Castiel’s direction with a grin. “You didn’t grump at me when I stacked the dishes up to be washed later, the goofy smile hasn’t left your face all night—hell, I know you’ve got a bunch of work stuff on your plate right now, but you still agreed to come over for dinner, which you _never_ do. Hannah, hon? Back me up?”

“I’m not getting involved in this,” Hannah says from her spot at the dining table, fixated on whatever work she’s doing on her laptop. “Sort it out yourselves.” But then she pauses, and glances up at them for a moment, a hint of a smile playing around the edges of her lips. “Then again,” she points out, “Inias might be right. You’ve seemed much more relaxed. This _Dean_ guy must be a good influence on you.”

_Weight pressing against Castiel’s leg, those sinful lips wrapping around his fingers. Castiel’s hand in Dean’s hair and a quiet, peaceful night watching a movie that Castiel can’t remember._

“You could say that,” he murmurs quietly, allowing himself a soft smile.

Inias fist pumps the air. “I _knew_ it!” he crows. “Oh, man, look at that. You’re so sweet on him. How did it go, did you dom him?”

“ _Inias_ ,” Hannah reprimands, without looking up from her laptop. It’s a wonder that she wasn’t designated a Dom, what with the way she manages to keep Inias in check sometimes. “That’s personal, Castiel might not want to answer that.”

“Yeah, Inias.” Cas grins at his best friend, who rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out. Dean might be able to calm his mind like no one else can, but Inias is the only one who’s ever relaxed Castiel as much as Dean has, and he manages to do so without the help of biology.

Still, teasing aside, Castiel _does_ want to talk to Inias about what happened. The two of them talk idly as their dinner cooks, and it’s only once Hannah packs up her laptop and disappears into the bedroom that Castiel broaches the subject once more.

“I did dom him,” he says quietly, and Inias looks up from where he’s been aimlessly stirring the soup, his eyes wide.

“You did? What was it like? It must have been good, if you’re all relaxed and shit now. Hell, when was the last time you even got laid?”

Castiel’s mouth flattens into a thin line for a moment. “That’s not important,” he mutters, then shrugs one shoulder. “Besides, we didn’t have sex. It wasn’t like that.”

He thinks of Dean’s tongue curling around his fingers, though, and of the heat that had simmered beneath his skin as Dean had given him _that look_ , all coy gaze and wickedly sinful smirk.

_Okay, maybe it was a little bit like that._

He reroutes himself before he can get too distracted by that train of thought. “We just… cooked dinner together, then watched a movie, and I fed him dessert from my fingers while he knelt on the floor. He seemed to really like it, and… and I did, too,” he admits quietly. He can’t look at Inias while he says it—it feels too intimate, especially considering how long he’s denied his dominant nature. To admit, now, that he likes it—likes being in a position of power over someone else…

His brow creases, and he starts to feel a little nauseous.

“Hey, Cas, you okay? You’re looking a little pale there.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Castiel shakes his head to clear it, then meets Inias’s worried gaze. “I’m fine,” he mutters, trying to shake off the feeling that’s currently wrapping itself in knots around his stomach.

Inias doesn’t look entirely convinced, his brow creased and the corners of his mouth downturned, but his concern fades somewhat when Castiel makes an effort at straightening his posture and giving a semi-believable smile. “Alright, then,” he says, letting his hand fall. “Well, no matter what you guys got up to, it helped, right? And that’s what matters—that it makes you feel better. I don’t want to see you stuck in that downward spiral again just because you’re ignoring what your own brain is telling you to do.”

“Yeah,” Castiel says quietly—and he tries to listen to Inias’s words, he _really_ does, but…

The knotty feeling in his stomach doesn’t go away, no matter how much he banters with Inias, or chats with Hannah, or how invested he gets into the episodes of Stranger Things they watch after dinner. It’s still there, still lingering, until he’s lying in his bed that night and staring up at his ceiling, wondering how the hell he let himself do the very thing he always swore he wouldn’t…

And how much he’d _liked_ doing it.

The next day, at work, Castiel feels as though all of his forward progress has disappeared.

He’s tense, snappish, keeps to himself as much as he can all day and barely even speaks to Anna. His desk is immaculate, and he spends ten minutes sorting all his files into alphabetical order based on folder content in the hopes that it will help. It doesn’t.

By the time he’s ready to go home, he feels more wound up than he has all day, his stomach churning and his mind unable to focus on any one thing that’s not _why did I do that, why, why, why_.

Castiel leaves early, pulling on his coat and tugging down the sleeves so that he can be totally sure that his forearms are covered. As he stands outside the museum, leaning back against the old stonework and letting the crowd pass by in front of him in the early-evening rush, he wonders what he should do now.

He could go home. He _should_ go home—he doesn’t know what else he’d do on a Wednesday night, with no company and this feeling of anxiety simmering persistently beneath his skin.

But home holds memories, now: memories of him and Dean, of green eyes watching him from the floor, of plush lips curved into a smirk, curled around his fingers, pressed against his own lips.

Home holds memories of Dean, and memories of what Castiel had _done_ to Dean—none of it bad, or cruel, sure, but so much of it domination. That first step, that position of power. And he’d _enjoyed_ it.

He leans his head back against the stone and closes his eyes against the bile that rises up in his throat.

_Fuck_.

Without overthinking it, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and types out a message with trembling fingers.

>> Can I talk to you?

It’s a few minutes before a reply comes through—which isn’t as quickly as he might have liked, but it’s the end of the work day and Dean is surely packing up, so Cas should be thankful that it didn’t take longer.

<< of course, everything okay?

Castiel clenches his jaw and presses back against the stone, its solid presence keeping him grounded. It’s best to be honest, right? He needs to communicate with Dean, if this thing between them is going to work.

Not that he’s sure he _wants_ it to work, at this point. Fuck, he feels so fucked up for wanting more.

>> No. I… I don’t feel good about what happened between us, all of a sudden.

>> I’d like to talk to you, if that’s possible.

This time, the reply comes through almost immediately.

>> fuck, I shoulda realized this might happen

>> we can get dinner somewhere tonight and talk? I promise what’s happening to you is common, cas, don’t beat yourself up

Castiel chuckles, quiet and mirthless. It feels a little too late for that.

<< I think that would help, yes. Are you still at work?

>> yeah, but I’ll be done in 20. meet me here?

<< Okay. I will see you soon.

Cas locks his phone and pinches the bridge of his nose for a second, then slides his phone into his pocket. He remembers the way to the studio where Dean works, and it shouldn’t take him more than twenty minutes to get there. Hopefully it will help him to clear his head a little, but he doesn’t have very high hopes.

By the time he gets to Harvelle Ink, his head is still a swirling mess—worse, possibly, than before he’d begun this with Dean, but in an entirely different way. Now, he feels… _disgusted_ with himself for liking the way he’d been dominant over Dean. He’d let it happen, let himself give into the biology he’s always denied.

Castiel lingers outside for a minute or two, trying to work up the courage and go inside and face Dean. In the end, he just has to bite the bullet and push open the door.

Dean looks up from whatever he’s working on at the computer, and for a moment, when he meets Castiel’s gaze, his face lights up.

But then his brows crease, and his expression morphs into one of worry. “Heya, Cas, you—you’re not looking so good there, buddy.”

It’s not very reassuring to think that he looks as bad as he feels right now, but from the way Dean’s worry seems to _increase_ when Castiel forces a tight smile, there’s probably not much point in hiding it. “I don’t _feel_ so good,” he mutters, closing the front door behind him and leaning back against the wall. “It’s been… quite the day.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth pull down, and he quickly finishes up whatever he’s doing on the computer before shutting it down and stepping out from behind the desk. “How about we go find some dinner, then, and you can tell me what’s going on in your head.” He doesn’t bother with a jacket like Castiel has, just pats his pockets to make sure he’s got everything that he needs and then looks expectantly at Castiel.

With the sleeves of his flannel rolled halfway up his forearms, Dean’s tattoos are exposed and stunning. Castiel finds himself equal parts admiring and jealous as he lets his eyes be drawn across inked skin for a moment before he meets Dean’s gaze once more.

“That’s probably a good idea,” he says quietly, because he doesn’t even know where to _begin_ unpacking the mess of thoughts and feelings that his head has become. It almost felt simpler back when he’d just been ignoring all this dominant and submissive stuff.

Castiel heads outside while Dean finishes switching off all the lights and locking up the store, waiting patiently on the sidewalk. Not even a minute passes before Dean joins him, locking the front door and then sliding his keys into the back pocket of his jeans. “Good to go?” he checks, and Castiel nods.

Now that he’s here with Dean, part of him—the impulsive, biology-driven part—relaxes in the sub’s presence. Dean _calms_ him, settles his nerves like no one else has ever been able to, all with a look and a touch and the gentlest up-tilt of his lips.

But the other part, the part that overthinks, overanalyzes, and has been on constant high alert ever since his eighteenth birthday… right now, it’s telling him to shy away. To get away from Dean, because he’s worked so hard on trying to avoid any kind of Dom/sub relationship.

And now this man has undone so many years of fear and resolve with his words and his patience and his warm weight pressed against Castiel’s leg as they watch Netflix and Cas’s fingers card through his hair.

He’s not sure which part of himself to listen to right now, but the part that is balking at how enjoyable he’d found having Dean’s submission, how much he’d liked the feeling of control… it’s shouting pretty fucking loud.

But before he can second guess his decision to meet up with Dean tonight, can make any excuses to disappear back into the evening dusk and retreat back home to where he doesn’t have to push himself out of his comfort zone, Dean starts walking. Casually, slowly, hands in his pockets as he strolls down the sidewalk and away from the studio. Castiel’s brain responds automatically…

And he follows.

They fall into step, side-by-side, and Dean gives Castiel a slow, happy smile that feels like warm syrup in Cas’s head. _My sub is happy. I made the right choice_.

And he doesn’t think past that. _Can’t_ right now, not until he has the chance to sit down and talk to Dean about how he’s feeling and whatever the hell is going on in his head.

“How do you feel about beer and burgers?” Dean asks, and his shoulder brushes Castiel’s as they walk. Thank god Dean’s hands are pushed into his pockets—the dangling brush of fingertips against Castiel’s would be a temptation impossible to refuse.

“Beer and burgers sounds fantastic,” Castiel replies. His fingers twitch at his sides with how much he wants to touch Dean right now—take his hand, or settle his palm on the small of Dean’s back, or run his fingers through Dean’s hair. He doesn’t do any of that, but he doesn’t shove his hands into his pockets to negate the temptation, either. Just lets it be, simmering in the back of his mind.

They don’t really talk, Castiel content to just let Dean lead him to wherever they’re going, and taking comfort in his presence. Eventually, they stop at a diner the next block over, and Dean holds the door open for Cas as they enter. It’s only half-full, and Castiel chooses an empty booth near the far corner; somewhere where they can speak without being overheard or interrupted.

Dean slides into the booth first, his back against the wall, and for a moment Castiel feels compelled to slide in next to him, press in close and wrap his arm around the sub’s shoulders. Feel his warmth, his grounding presence.

Instead, he curls his hands into fists for a moment, then takes the seat opposite Dean.

For all that it was his idea to meet up with Dean tonight, now that they’re face to face, the idea of broaching the topic that’s been sending him into a tailspin for the last twenty-four hours is more than a little intimidating. Castiel pores over the menu for longer than is necessary (certainly longer than it takes for him to select his burger and fries), until a gentle nudge against his foot brings his attention back to Dean.

Dean is watching him, his forearms resting against the tabletop and a small crease of concern between his brows. His foot stays nudged against Castiel’s—one small point of contact, and not as much as Castiel craves right now, but enough.

The waitress comes to take their order, all smiles, with a thick black line on her forearm. Cas orders quietly and watches as Dean gives her a quick smile, then turns all his attention back to Castiel as soon as she’s gone.

“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” Dean asks, his voice soft.

Castiel’s chest clenches, and his kneejerk reaction is to shake his head and insist that he’s fine, that nothing’s going on—

But he’s already told Dean that he’s not okay, and even if he hadn’t, he’s sure that Dean would be able to tell how _off_ he is tonight.

So he sighs, scrubs his hands over his face, then focuses his gaze on a chip in the formica tabletop.

“I felt really good after Saturday,” he starts. “I could focus on things, I was happy, I couldn’t stop thinking about…” _You_. “…what happened between us. But then I was talking to Inias last night, and I told him a little bit about it, and all of a sudden, I…”

Castiel curls his fingers into his palms, nails biting into soft skin. “I felt  _terrible_. I couldn’t believe that I’d _liked_ dominating you, that it had come so naturally to me when I’ve spent so many years trying to be the total opposite of that. I just… I felt so _sick_ , Dean.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth curve downward, and he nods, pausing as though to consider his words.

“Did I tell you to stop? Or tell you I didn’t like what was happening at any point?”

Castiel blinks. Of course Dean hadn’t told him to stop—if anything, he’d wanted _more_ , since kneeling had been _his_ choice. Nothing about what had happened between them had given Castiel any indication that Dean hadn’t liked it.

“No,” he says, quiet but clear.

Dean smiles, folding his arms atop the table and leaning closer. “You’ve gotta understand that being submissive is in my nature, Cas, just like being dominant is in yours. I _like_ subbing, with the right person and doing the right things. It’ll be the same for you. Some stuff won’t work for you, but some stuff will make you feel really good, and doing it with compatible people will make it even better. There’s absolutely no shame in that. If you’re into it, and I’m into it, and we’re both enjoying it… that’s what matters. I know you’ve got years of mental shit to break, but you’re on the right track, Cas. And no matter what’s going on in your head, I’m here for you.”

Castiel’s chest tightens, but for a different reason this time. Dean’s words, his reassurance, help to soothe the simmering panic beneath his skin, but the fact that he _understands_ how Cas is feeling, and is willing to help him through this… he’s _so_ grateful.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice cracking. He clears his throat, forces his fingers to uncurl. “You, um. You said something about this being common?”

Dean’s lips pull into a sympathetic line. “It is, yeah. Less so with experience and communication and shit, but it still happens. Your version—the Dom version—is called top drop. It’s where you get anxious or depressed after dominating someone. Subs can get it too, after a scene. It’s, uh, it’s much more common.”

These aren’t terms Castiel is familiar with, and he frowns, trying to piece together this new information. It certainly sounds like what he’s been experiencing, but it’s going to take a little bit of time to wrap his head around the psychology of all this.

The waitress returns with their drinks, and Dean fidgets with his beer, passing the bottle idly back and forth between his fingertips. “You never learned any of this in school?” he asks.

Castiel snorts. “You mean orientation-ed? My mother called it ‘left-wing nonsense’ and withdrew me from the classes. So, no. Everything I know about dominating, I know from having lived with her for eighteen years, and seeing how she treated…”

He trails off, the last few words failing to form around the lump in his throat.

Dean blinks at him, then opens his mouth and closes it again. His fingers tighten around the base of his beer bottle, knuckles turning white, until he visibly forces himself to relax them. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says, and there’s heavy, genuine emotion in his voice. “I… no-one should have to go through that. There are some people out there with a really fucked up, archaic version of what the relationship between a Dominant and a submissive should be, and I… I’m sorry.”

Cas looks down at his own bottle, picking at the edge of the label in order to keep himself occupied so that he doesn’t collapse inwards into the hole in his chest. “It’s okay, Dean. I… I got used to it a long time ago. I just never realized that it could be different, you know? I really wish I’d known that earlier.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, and Castiel’s heart starts to ache with the wish that he’d just said _fuck it_ and sat next to Dean so that he could give in to his selfish need for physical comfort. Dean’s foot is still pressed against his beneath the table, so that’s something—but then Dean reaches over and takes Castiel’s free hand, interlacing their fingers together and rubbing his thumb across the back of Cas’s hand.

The tightness across Castiel’s chest loosens, just a little bit, and he smiles at Dean.

“My mom’s a Dom,” Dean says, breaking the quiet between them. He sips at his beer with his free hand. “Pretty much everything I know, I learned from her.” He smiles, a quick quirk of lips. “I really wanted to be a Dom like her, but man, I was always gonna be a sub. My dad, though…” The smile fades, disappears. “He’s unpresented. They had a fairytale romance when they were younger, but he was one of the least submissive people I’ve ever met, and he wouldn’t let mom dom him, _or_ find a sub to dom to rebalance herself, you know? So it just… didn’t work.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows, curious. “So she was like me?” he asks. “Well, not exactly like me, but… you know. Is that why you know so much about all this?”

Dean nods, his thumb rubbing idly over Cas’s skin. “After they separated, she went back to school, started studying orientation dynamics. She teaches at KU now, which is pretty fucking cool.” His grin returns, wide and proud and cheeky. “So _she’s_ the expert, but I hope you can settle for second best with me.”

That manages to pull a genuine chuckle from Castiel for the first time all day, and he shrugs his shoulders. “I suppose I can make do,” he sighs, and Dean’s ensuing laughter manages to make him feel impossibly lighter than he had just moments ago.

Their food arrives shortly after, and they dig in—Cas is reluctant to let go of Dean’s hand, but the hunger gnawing at his stomach wins out, and he reaches for his burger. They trade fries, since Castiel has never tried curly fries before and Dean insists that that is a crime and should be rectified immediately, and the easy banter they fall into relaxes him even more. Dean is so easy to get along with outside of the Dom/sub aspect of things, and it sets him so at ease that by the time their plates and bottles are empty, he’s smiling and leaning on the tabletop, gravitating towards Dean as though he’s done so all his life.

Night has well and truly fallen by the time they pay for their meals and leave the diner, but the air is still warm, and there are many people still out and about. “Feeling a bit better now?” Dean asks as he falls into step beside Castiel, the two of them heading in the vague direction of Cas’s apartment building. A walk will do him good, he thinks—and besides, the more time he gets to spend with Dean, the better.

“I think so, yes,” he answers honestly. “It helped to know that you enjoyed it, and I think the… the _orientation_ part of me is something I’m just going to have to get used to with time. Does it get easier?”

Dean nods, reaching out to press the crosswalk button as they wait for the lights to change. “It does, yeah. The more you do it, the more comfortable you get with it, and the less you doubt yourself. You’ll get there, if that’s something you want to work towards—getting more comfortable with it, I mean.” He scuffs his shoe over the pavement, and then the lights change, and they step out onto the street. “If this is still only something you want to do occasionally, to balance out your brain, I get it, but… it could be more, y’know? I’d be happy for it to be more.”

The street they turn down is quieter—fewer cars, fewer people, less noise. Castiel lets his arms swing, breath hitching as the back of his hand brushes against Dean’s. “I think…” he says softly, casting a sidelong look at Dean. The streetlights bathe him in dusty gold, bringing out the green of his eyes and the white of his smile. “I think I would like to try it—this—being more. Actually getting more comfortable with my orientation being a part of me, instead of simply forcing myself to do it when I can’t take any more. You seem so happy and so confident with the submissive part of yourself, and I… I’d really like to have that.”

Dean grins, bumping his shoulder gently against Cas’s as they walk. “That’s awesome, Cas. I’m really proud of you, y’know. It doesn’t sound like you had the best Dom role models when you were growing up, so it’s pretty fucking cool that you’re willing to try and work through it all and get comfortable with yourself. Not many people would do that, and I’m glad that you trust me enough to let me help.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says quietly, and Dean must be able to tell that that’s all he can manage on the topic for now, because he changes course effortlessly and starts to talk about his day at work. They chat idly as they walk, Castiel making adjustments to their route once he recognizes where they are and Dean seemingly happy to tag along and walk Cas back to his apartment. It’s a nice evening, after all, and neither of them particular wants to leave the company of the other.

As much as Castiel wants to stay with Dean, however, eventually they end up out the front of his apartment building, and all the emotional weight of the day catches up to him. If it wasn’t a weeknight, and he didn’t feel as though he could fall asleep on any vaguely horizontal surface that was presented to him, he would invite Dean in, but unfortunately common sense wins out.

“Thank you for meeting up with me today,” he says as they stand in front of his building. “I really appreciate you helping me out and sharing with me what you did. This is all so new to me.”

Dean smiles and shakes his head as if to say, _it’s nothing_. “Of course, Cas, any time. I said I’d be here for you, and I meant it.” He takes a half-step closer—close enough to reach out and touch. To kiss. “Will I see you this weekend?”

“I’d like that, yes,” Cas tells him, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Saturday again?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Dean steps forward and pulls him into a hug, tight and comforting and _so good_ but _not enough_. Now isn’t the time nor the place for Castiel to figure out just where he stands with Dean and physical intimacy, though, so instead he wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders and squeezes, then lets go when Dean does.

“See ya, Cas,” Dean says, giving a quick wave as he backs away. For a few moments, their gazes meet, neither of them wanting to look away first—until Dean almost trips over the curb.

Castiel can’t help but laugh as Dean swears, regains his footing, then looks up at Cas with a grin. “Goodbye, Dean. Please don’t turn up in a cast this Saturday,” he says, pitching his voice to carry across the distance between them.

“No promises!” Dean calls back, laughing as he turns away.

Castiel watches him walk away for a few long moments, then makes his way inside to where the comfort of his apartment and his bed await him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We earning that Explicit rating today, y'all! Hoo boy, I am rusty at smut. Thank you to [cap](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com) and [kaz](http://kazshero.tumblr.com) for betaing!
> 
> Enjoy <3

Castiel, like anyone else, has always looked forward to the weekend. The weekend means respite, recuperation, a chance to catch up on the hectic work that gets thrown his way Monday through Friday. He loves his job, he really does, but it feels so good to get to just _relax_.

And now that he and Dean are… well, whatever they are, weekends take on a whole different meaning.

The weekend is Dean time, there’s no doubt about that. During the week, they’ll text occasionally, sharing work anecdotes or observations, or even just messaging to say _hi_. But on Saturday or Sunday? That’s when Castiel gets to meet up with Dean. To get to know him, face to face, and to get to know _himself_ as well. Figure out how this whole Dominant thing fits inside him and slots into the rest of his personality.

They’ve been taking it slow, though, like they said they would. Dean comes over and they cook dinner together, then settle on the couch with dessert and take turns picking the movie. Dean chooses where he sits, or kneels, but they always have some point of contact between them that keeps Castiel grounded, his attention focused on Dean.

They still don’t kiss, no matter how much Castiel might think about it, and they don’t go any further than caresses, or Cas’s fingers carding through Dean’s hair.

Until one Saturday night.

They’re sitting on the couch together; at least, Cas is sitting. Dean is lying with his head resting on Cas’s thigh, taking up the remainder of the couch. They’re used to this configuration—or some variant of it—by now. This easy companionship is all Castiel looks forward to all week: an evening with Dean, his biological dominance soothed by the effects of Dean’s presence while that attraction and chemistry simmers away just beneath his skin.

Castiel scrolls aimlessly through Netflix, trying to find something that catches his eye. It doesn’t really matter, since the movie ends up being background noise to his focus on Dean anyway, but he doesn’t want anything too terrible or cringey to ruin the vibe they have going between the two of them.

Eventually, Cas settles on a nature documentary. He puts the remote aside and settles his hand on Dean’s shoulder, a touch that Dean presses up into just a little. Castiel hums under his breath, and lets himself relax back into the couch cushions. He’s here, and he’s with Dean, and even just having the man that his mind has come to think of as _his_ sub close by is enough to settle him.

Usually, Dean is good at sitting still, content to stay in whatever position he picks. Tonight, however, he’s fidgety—sometimes it’s just small adjustments to his posture, but occasionally he shifts position entirely. It’s as though he can’t quite get comfortable, as though there’s something he _wants_ , but that he hasn’t gotten yet.

They keep watching, because at least Dean is still here with Castiel, even if he can’t seem to get settled—but about thirty minutes in, Dean reaches for the remote and puts the documentary on pause.

“Everything okay?” Castiel asks, rubbing his thumb over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean huffs out a sigh and drags his hand over his face. “It’s like you’ve never heard of the ‘chill’ part of this whole setup,” he mutters, his words half hidden by his palm—but there’s no frustration in his voice, and when he lets his hand fall away, the corner of his mouth is tugging up into a smile.

Castiel frowns—something about that phrase seems vaguely familiar, though he can’t quite put his finger on it. “What?”

Dean rolls fully onto his back and gives Castiel a quick grin, his teeth flashing in the low light. “Don’t worry about it, Cas. I’m thirsty. You want anything?”

Castiel watches Dean through his lashes, thinking, then shakes his head. “I’m okay. But thank you, Dean, I appreciate you offering.”

It’s so satisfying to see the way Dean responds to praise—the flush in his cheeks, the way he seems to light up from the inside, despite his restlessness and whatever the hell he’d been talking about before.

“Of course, Cas,” Dean says, shooting Castiel a grin that creates butterflies in his stomach and sends molten steel coursing through his veins. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

And then he disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

Castiel leans his head back against the couch and relishes in his own state of relaxation; it feels so fucking good to just be able to spend time with Dean and let him work his magic, both because of his submissive nature and because of the calming effect he has on Castiel even without it. Castiel is sure that even if they were both unpresented, he would still find himself drawn to Dean, and he smiles up at his ceiling at the thought of it.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to return, but when he does, he doesn’t settle back into his original position with his head pillowed on Castiel’s thigh. Instead, he presses himself against Castiel’s side—not enough for it to be overt and exaggerated, but enough to catch Castiel’s attention.

He hums, rests a hand on Dean’s thigh without thinking. “Did you want something?”

Dean meets his gaze, his lips curled up into a half-smile that Castiel has learned by now means Dean has a goal. A trick up his sleeve. A way to push the boundaries even just a little.

“Yes,” he says simply, looking at Castiel through his lashes. He doesn’t elaborate, or explain. Just leaves it at a simple _yes_.

 _Interesting_.

If Dean isn’t going to tell him what he wants… well, it might be time to do some experimenting. Castiel has a good idea of what he likes, after all, both from their conversations and from Dean’s reactions to certain stimuli.

“Okay,” he says simply, and reaches for the remote to play the documentary once more. This time, though, he’s definitely not paying any attention to it. No, he’s totally focused on Dean’s every move, every breath, completely zeroed in on his sub even if he tries not to make it obvious.

He can tell that Dean is on edge, too—from the slight hitch to his breath every time Castiel moves, or the way he feels against Cas’s side, like he’s _trying_ to relax but is just a little too wound up for it to work.

It takes five minutes for Dean to relax, and five minutes for Castiel to finally make his move. He starts subtly: the shift of his hand against Dean’s thigh, fingertips brushing the inseam of his jeans and thumb smoothing idly over the denim.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and without even looking, Castiel knows that every fiber in Dean’s being is completely focused on him right now.

What a heady, _powerful_ feeling.

He keeps that hand on Dean’s leg for a little while longer, giving him the barest of touches until it feels as though he might vibrate out of his skin, and then he says, “On your knees.”

Dean _scrambles_ to comply, sliding off the couch in a tangle of limbs even though it costs him Castiel’s touch. He kneels on the carpet and looks up at Castiel, lips parted and pupils blown wide. He’s so gorgeous like this, pliant and willing and _wanting_. It makes Castiel want to see how far he can take it, how much he can bring Dean out of his mind.

He might need a little more practice for that first, though.

Instead, he reaches out and runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, letting his grip tighten just a little. The gentle pull tugs Dean’s head back slightly, and he gives an unabashed moan, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones. Holy _hell_ , that’s hot. Castiel swallows, his mind circling around a conversation they’d had back when all this had started.

“You said,” he murmurs, fingers still combing through Dean’s hair, pulling and releasing over and over until Dean’s breath is hitching and his bottom lip is pink where he’s been biting it. “That this… this could be sexual. If I wanted it.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and his hands twitch where they’re curled against his thighs. His gaze doesn’t leave Castiel’s, and he doesn’t speak. Just waits for Cas to finish.

“Is that… still something you would be interested in?”

The air between them feels drawn taut, thick with tension. Castiel holds his breath as he waits for the answer to come, holding Dean’s gaze steady as the seconds draw out.

Slowly, Dean’s lips curl into a grin, and the air of appraisal—as though he’s trying to figure out if Cas is serious—disappears. “Yes,” he says, the single word jagged but clear. Castiel’s heart skips a beat in his chest, and electricity races through his veins, heat and arousal pooling in his gut.

_Dean wants this._

_Dean wants_ me.

Castiel runs his fingers through Dean’s hair once more, and this time Dean leans into it, pressing against Cas’s hand and letting his eyes slide closed. It’s easy to imagine pulling his hair harder, knotting his fingers in the short strands and moving Dean wherever he wants. The mental image makes Cas’s dick twitch in his jeans, but for now he lets his fingers slide out of Dean’s hair, curving around his jaw instead.

They’re only just getting started with this whole sexual exploration thing, after all. Castiel hopes he’ll get plenty of opportunity to gauge Dean’s hair-pulling preferences in the future.

His thumb brushes over Dean’s lips, which part pliantly beneath his touch. Dean’s teeth graze lightly over the pad of his thumb, the spark of a teasing challenge in his eyes before he wraps his lips around the digit.

It’s slow, languid. Dean’s tongue teases around the tip of Castiel’s thumb as he captures it gently between his teeth. God, he’d never known that even _this_ could be so hot, with the right person, but Dean is _so right_ that it feels like he’s on fire. He never wants this feeling to end.

After a few seconds, Dean releases Castiel’s thumb, his lips curled up into a sinful smile and his cheeks flushed. Cas traces over Dean’s cheekbone, lets his fingertips trail across Dean’s jaw—

Then lets his hand fall away and slowly leans back against the couch.

It puts more distance between them, Castiel reclining back against the cushions and Dean on his knees in front of him, but Cas never lets their eye contact waver. It’s not a rejection, not at all, and that becomes clear when Castiel shifts his legs—subtly, but enough for them to fall open, to make room for Dean between them. It’s an invitation, and one that Dean has the power to accept or ignore. This may be what Castiel wants, the intimacy that he’s almost shaking apart for, but it will be on Dean’s terms.

An offering provided, a question to which Dean holds the answer in his hands.

Dean’s teeth drag over his bottom lip, his throat bobs, and then he’s moving, shuffling forward on the carpet until his knees are almost bumping the couch and he’s situated between Castiel’s spread legs, looking up at him with that _come fuck me_ gaze that’s already driving Cas wild.

Fuck, Cas doesn’t think he’s been this hard in his _life_.

“Okay,” he says shakily, almost unable to believe that this is real, that it’s _really_ happening.

Dean’s heated look fades a little, and he smiles, reaching up to splay his fingers over the top of Castiel’s thigh. “Hey, it’s alright,” he says, and his voice is roughened with arousal. “I’ve got you. You tell me if I’m doing something you don’t want, and vice versa, okay?”

 _Dean is the one with experience. Dean knows what he’s doing_.

 _Dean’s done this before_.

Castiel swallows down his nerves (and the mild jealousy that comes trickling up out of nowhere) and nods. “Okay,” he repeats, this time with more confidence. “Is it alright if I keep touching you?”

Dean chuckles, breathless and rich. “ _Please_ , Cas,” he murmurs, and his voice is back to that syrup-dark seduction that makes Castiel’s toes curl. “I think I’d go crazy if you didn’t.”

Now that, Castiel can do.

He reaches for Dean again, so much closer this time, and returns his fingers to Dean’s hair. It’s so satisfying to muss up the spiky styling, knowing that it’s _his_ hands, _his_ touch, that’s the cause. Dean makes a quiet sound and leans into it for a moment, and then he grins up at Castiel, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

It’s when Dean begins to do some exploring of his own that Castiel starts to learn that it’s not always the Dom who holds the reins.

Dean’s hands smooth over his denim-covered thighs, teasing over the inseam and grazing dangerously close to the evidence of Castiel’s arousal. He’d almost be embarrassed at how blatantly turned on he is if not for the way Dean’s touching him, watching him, those green eyes molten and fixed on every one of Castiel’s reactions as he teases, straying closer and closer to the bulge in Cas’s jeans.

When Dean’s fingers finally graze over the contained shape of Castiel’s erection, he can’t help the soft sound that leaves his throat—not because he can feel much considering the layers of denim and cotton between them, but at the intimacy of it. The fact that it’s no longer a tease but a _reality_ , a concrete suggestion of what is to come. As those deft fingers popping the button on his jeans, Dean smirks up at him.

This is a threshold that cannot be uncrossed, and Castiel wouldn’t have it any other way.

The background sound of the documentary has long since faded away, and the sound of Dean slowly dragging down the zipper of Cas’s fly sounds like thunder in his ears. His fingers still in Dean’s hair, and all he can do is watch as Dean curls his fingers around the waistband of his jeans and tugs at them. He does manage to get with the program somewhat, lifting his hips to help pull his jeans down a little further, but now there’s only the layer of his boxers hiding his erection and he’s more than ninety percent sure that his brain has stopped working.

“Keep going,” he says, when Dean pauses to look up at him, checking in. He’s good, he’s _so_ good, and he wants Dean’s mouth on him _yesterday_ but this moment feels crystalline, something to be savoured. Every breath is trembling, every nerve hyper-sensitive, every touch lighting him aflame.

Dean’s laugh is quiet, his teeth flashing in the low light as he grins. “Yes sir,” he murmurs, and then he’s tugging at Castiel’s boxers, pulling them down and exposing Castiel’s cock. It stands tall and proud, twitching beneath Dean’s gaze. Dean is so close that Castiel swears he can feel his breath, whispering against his shaft.

Something tugs behind Castiel’s sternum—a feeling, an _urge_ , something deep-seated inside him. “Hands behind your back,” he whispers on impulse, because he _knows_ how stunning it will be. _He_ wants to be the person who decides what Dean gets, and when he gets it.

Dean blinks, soft and surprised, and then a smile curves across his parted lips. Slowly, deliberately, he moves his hands off Castiel’s thighs and clasps them behind his back, then kneels there. He is waiting for Castiel’s lead, pliant and submissive in his perfect, _beautiful_ way but still looking up at Castiel with a challenge—that gaze that says _now what?_

Because _Castiel_ is the one in charge.

His breath hitches on his next inhale, and his throat bobs as he swallows. He fits his fingers against the curve of Dean’s skull and guides him forward with the tiniest hint of pressure, gentle enough that Dean could easily resist if he wanted to but more than sufficient to get his point across. And that it does—Dean sways forward under Castiel’s touch, lips parted, gaze flicking between Castiel’s eyes and the head of his cock.

With his other hand, Castiel presses his thumb against the base of his cock and guides it forward, his other fingers curled loosely. It’s imprecise and fumbling, just like he feels in this situation with Dean, and it’s _perfect_. The head wavers in front of Dean’s lips, who parts them, tongue wetting his bottom lip in anticipation, and then Castiel presses forward the tiniest bit more and he _feels_ the drag of Dean’s lips on the most sensitive part of his body.

Even without any other factors, it would feel electric, but this is the first time he’s been with a submissive like _this_ , the first time he’s done anything of this caliber with Dean, and…

It feels as though it’s on another level entirely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and watches as Dean smirks, as much as he can with the head of Castiel’s cock resting gently between his parted lips. There’s a sass and a playfulness in his expression that Cas adores, a kind of submission so different from the wide-eyed look he gets when Castiel puts him off-kilter but equally as good.

He curls his fingers in Dean’s hair, scratches his nails gently against his scalp, and urges him a little deeper. The head of his cock slides between Dean’s lips and onto his tongue, and _god_ , Dean’s mouth feels sinfully good.

“Show me what you’ve got, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, watching Dean through lowered lashes. He looks so beautiful like this, waiting patiently with Castiel’s cock in his mouth and that hint of a smirk still playing around his lips. Cas has no doubt that there’s much more beneath the surface, though, and he can’t wait to see it.

Dean, the brat that he is, shoots Castiel a wink. His tongue teases at the bottom of Cas’s dick, but as he shifts his weight to get a better angle, Castiel sees his hands appear from behind his back.

He’s quick to tighten his fingers in Dean’s hair; a warning. “Did I say you could unclasp your hands?” he asks, his voice level and stern. Dean freezes in place, his eyes wide. Castiel can see the emotions beginning to flash behind his eyes—upset, disappointment, panic—and he’s quick to soften his tone. “It’s okay, Dean, but don’t let it happen again. Show me how good you can be, okay?”

Immediately, Dean nods, and this time, the determination in his eyes is different. Focused. His hands return to their firmly-clasped position behind his back, and Castiel barely has time to steel himself before Dean is taking more of his length into his mouth and properly getting to work.

His assessments of Dean’s talent at sucking dick were all completely accurate: Dean does it like a pro, using his tongue effortlessly to tease over all of Castiel’s sensitive spots and combining the perfect amount of suction and head movement to make his toes curl. It’s all Castiel can do to hold on for the ride, because Dean is _determined_ to make him feel good, and, well.

Who is Castiel to deny him that?

“So good, Dean,” he gasps, his other hand sliding into Dean’s hair and half-guiding, half-holding on as Dean sucks him off. “Feels so good. Holy fuck, your mouth. God, you’re perfect.”

The praise only spurs Dean on more, and he works as though his life depends on it—taking Cas as far down as he can go, and then pulling back to tease at the head, changing things up every time Castiel starts to get used to something until his whole head is spinning and he has no idea which way is up.

It looks just as good as it feels, too. Dean watches him through his lashes the whole time, eyes lust-dark, lips stretched around the girth of Castiel’s cock. His hands stay firmly behind his back, and he keeps exceptional balance on just his knees—occasionally he tips forward a little too far, taking Castiel further down than he’d expected and ending up with his nose pressed against the wiry hair at the base of Cas’s cock. Those times, it’s all Castiel can do not to thrust up into his mouth. He could take his pleasure, after all, knot his fingers in Dean’s hair and fuck his mouth, but as much as the idea appeals, they’re still feeling this out.

He can ask Dean if he would be amenable to that next time, but for now, he tries his best to keep himself still and let Dean show him what he can do.

It’s not long before Castiel starts to feel pleasure curling in his gut in earnest, the crest of his orgasm nearing the longer Dean bobs his head and swirls his tongue around Cas’s shaft. “Dean,” he gasps, closing his eyes for a moment to try and compose himself. “Dean, so good, I’m going to—stop, stop, Dean.”

He pulls Dean off his cock with frantic, shaking hands. Dean stares up at him with wide eyes and spit-slicked lips, and Castiel can already see the worry creeping in—did he do something wrong? Why was he asked to stop?

“Up here,” he orders, patting his lap, before Dean can start to doubt himself again. He’s using too much of his brain to focus on holding off his orgasm right now to explain himself, but he reaches for Dean as the sub staggers up off his knees and climbs onto Castiel’s lap.

Clumsy as it is without them, he never releases his hands from behind his back, and it’s almost enough to undo Castiel. “Fuck, you’re so good,” he whispers, pulling Dean close with desperate hands. “Can I kiss you? Please—please say I can kiss you, Dean.”

Dean laughs, shaky and breathless, and presses his forehead against Castiel’s. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, the weight of him settling across Castiel’s thighs, warm and perfect. “ _Please_ kiss me, otherwise I’m gonna explode.”

And that’s all the permission Castiel needs.

He curves one hand around Dean’s jaw and splays the other against his hip, pulling him close and pressing their lips together. This is nothing like the only other kiss they’ve shared so far, intimate and fragile and full of the unsurety of their situation. No, this kiss is fire and passion and desperation. It’s Cas pulling Dean close, kissing him with all he’s worth, whispering “touch me” against Dean’s lips until Dean’s fingers are curling into the front of his shirt, sliding along his jaw, every point of contact burning gloriously hot.

Castiel loses himself in the kiss, so much so that he forgets momentarily about the insistent throb of his erection—until Dean brushes against him, where he’s hard and aching, in a bid to press closer, and Cas inhales sharply. He doesn’t stop kissing Dean (couldn’t, even if he tried) as he moves his hands downwards, fumbling at Dean’s jeans. It doesn’t take him long to get them open, and then Dean is groaning into his mouth as Castiel curls his fingers around his erection and strokes. “Fuck, Cas,” he breathes, forehead knocking against Castiel’s.

Having Dean in his lap, kissing him desperately, almost incoherent with pleasure and _need_ … it sets off a biological part of Cas’s brain that he’s _never_ encountered before. For the longest time, he hadn’t even been sure that it was there. But now, with Dean pulling this side of him out into the open…

It feels better than Castiel could ever have imagined.

He nudges Dean closer, enough that their cocks bump against each other and he can wrap a hand around both of them together. With Dean’s erection hot and hard against his own, Castiel can barely string together a coherent thought, let alone vocalize anything at all right now, so he simply moans his pleasure into the air between them.

Dean’s hands are touching him everywhere, as though they can’t quite decide where to settle. They drag through Castiel’s hair, pull at his clothes, settle against the back of his neck. Being touched by Dean is intoxicating, and Cas wants to make Dean feel just as good right now. He starts to stroke both of their cocks together, and that gets even more of a reaction, as Dean kisses him with a new level of intensity and rocks up into Castiel’s grip. “Fuck,” he groans, “feels so good, Cas. So fucking good. ‘s it…” He pauses, lips shaped around a moan that seems to rumble up from the back of his throat as Castiel thumbs over the head of his cock. “’s it good for you, too?”

 _Is it good for_ him _?_ Surely Dean can tell that yes, it’s incredible, it’s everything he’d ever hoped it could be when he’d first laid eyes on Dean in the tattoo shop. But in case he can’t—or in case he wants to _hear_ it, as Castiel quickly realizes, because Dean is so attuned to praise and confirmation that what he’s doing is good…

“It’s exquisite, Dean,” Castiel murmurs against his lips. “Having you on your knees, sucking my dick with that beautiful, talented mouth… that had been incredible, but this—having you in my lap, so stunning with your beautiful sounds and the way you respond so well to my touch, my words… It is _so much more_ than good.”

Dean whimpers and presses forward, licking into Castiel’s mouth and biting his bottom lip with desperation and _need_ , his hips grinding up into Cas’s hand almost as if without conscious thought. One hand curls into the front of Castiel’s shirt, holding, _clinging_ , and the other drops to where Cas’s fingers still encircle their cocks. His hand wraps around Castiel’s, tightening the pressure just _so_ , and all of a sudden it takes on a completely different edge.

Castiel can’t help but mimic Dean’s motions, rutting up against him, push-pulling with his free hand in an attempt to get impossibly closer as he feels himself coming nearer and nearer to the edge. “I’m—Dean, I’m going to—“

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s. Their noses bump, and their kisses are messy and open-mouthed as their pleasure nears its crescendo. “Let go, Cas. Just let it all go.”

He does.

He comes with a cry, tipped over the edge by Dean’s words, the friction against his cock, the fire raging inside him that’s been stoked from a simmering coal of sexual tension into an inferno. It’s blissful and incredible and Castiel feels as though he’s shaking apart, holding onto Dean as though he never wants to let go while he rides out his orgasm.

It takes a minute or so for him to come back down and be able to do anything other than curl against Dean and ride through the aftershocks. He feels boneless, sated and happy in a way that he’s never felt before after reaching orgasm. If this is what it feels like, to weave the element of domination into sex…

He’s definitely starting to see the appeal.

Dean’s fingers card through his hair, and Castiel comes back to his senses, blinking up at him. His lips are curled up in a soft smile, and his eyes are warm, crinkled at the edges. “You doin’ okay?” Dean murmurs, continuing to run his fingers through Castiel’s hair.

All Cas wants right now is to press into that touch, to curl up against Dean and fall asleep warm and content and satisfied. But he has to check in with his sub, has to communicate, and so he gives a loose nod. “Yes. More than okay. That was…”

There’s come drying on his shirt, his pants and underwear down around his thighs, and it’s neither pretty nor comfortable but he can’t quite bring himself to care.

What he does care about, though—and what he realizes as he begins to return to earth—is that Dean still hasn’t come yet. His brows crease in a frown. Should he have let himself come before Dean? Is there an _etiquette_ in these situations? “Dean, I’m sorry, I—“ he begins, but Dean cuts him off with a kiss, his green eyes sparkling.

“Hey, you don’t need to apologize. I _did_ give you a pretty fantastic blowjob, you couldn’t be expected to hold off after that. Besides,” he says, his voice dropping lower, becoming more sultry. “You can still make me come. Or, uh, not, if that’s what you want. I can do that, too.”

From the tone in Dean’s voice, it’s more than clear that not having an orgasm is not Dean’s desired outcome of the night—and Castiel definitely wants to make him happy. He’s been _perfect_ , so talented and beautifully responsive.

He deserves a reward.

Dean definitely isn’t expecting Castiel to flip their positions and lay him out on his back on the couch, and the surprised sound he makes is enough to have Cas snort in amusement, but he can’t let himself be distracted. He kneels on the couch cushions between Dean’s legs (somewhat awkwardly, since he _is_ a grown man and his couch is not exactly large) and bends down to wrap his lips around Dean’s cock.

It’s clear from the loud moan and jerk of his hips that Dean was definitely not expecting this, but as his hands fly instinctively to Castiel’s head, he reaches up to catch one wrist. Making eye contact with Dean up the length of his body, and still with his mouth on Dean’s cock, Castiel very deliberately squeezes his wrist, then releases it.

 _You are not to touch_.

Dean gets the message, loud and clear. His fingers clench and unclench, and then he shudders as he lowers his hands, gripping the couch cushions instead. Castiel smiles around his cock, and rewards him by beginning to bob his head.

He’s not particularly practiced at giving head, but Dean is already so close and so strung out by Castiel’s domination that it doesn’t take long for his body to go bow-taut and his pleasure to peak. He barely gets out a warning before Castiel is pulling off his cock and stroking him through his orgasm instead, watching as his release spatters across the exposed stretch of his abdomen and the hem of his shirt.

 _Come and ink_. Castiel can’t help but reach out and trace his fingers over Dean’s stomach, over the lines of the tattoo that peek out. It’s a quote, typewritten lettering with a jagged asterisk at the end.

 _No damn cat, and no damn cradle_.

“How was that?” Castiel asks, allowing himself a somewhat proud smile as Dean stares up at the ceiling and catches his breath. There’s a smile on his lips, wide and relaxed, and his eyes shine as he meets Cas’s gaze.

“Perfect, Cas. Fucking perfect. I was _not_ expecting that—but I wasn’t disappointed in any way. Holy _shit_.”

Deep inside him, some biological part of his brain preens, happy and proud with the knowledge that he has satisfied his submissive. He’d never expected dominating to be like this—never expected dominating to be anything other than firm hands and cruel words, to tell the truth.

He’s so glad that he now has Dean to show him all the possibilities that are truly out there.

They collapse on the couch for a little while as they catch their breath, the two of them pressed close on a couch not built for two people to lie down on, until Dean declares them too sticky and gross to stay there for much longer.

“Come on,” he says, and Castiel can feel his lips move where they’re brushing against his neck. Can feel the puff of his breath, the curve of his smile. “Let’s go have a shower, and then maybe we can finish this documentary.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I burnt my own eggs and bacon writing the end of this chapter, so y'all are welcome. Also, there is now winchester-reload art in chapter 3, for those of you who might want to check it out :D

Castiel finds that he doesn’t particularly want to move.

Despite the size of his couch, and their state of disarray, being curled up beside Dean is all kinds of relaxing and comforting that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until now. He’d be perfectly happy to lie here with Dean for the rest of the evening—though, realistically, he knows he might not be so amenable to that idea once the come has started drying on their skin and their clothes.

Dean, clever man that he is, is very aware of this.

Which is why he’s currently poking his fingers into Castiel’s ribcage and laughing against his neck. “C’mon, dude. It’s not far to the shower, but we can’t stay here all night.”

Castiel grumbles good-naturedly. He disagrees.

But Dean can be very persuasive. His prodding, tickling fingers, when combined with a few kisses to the parts of Cas’s exposed skin that he can reach, prove more than effective in getting Castiel up off the couch. And, of course, once he’s moving he realizes just how gross he actually is right now, and then nothing on earth would be able to keep him from getting to his shower.

Dean just laughs and follows, his eyes always on Castiel and that sweet, soft half-smile always playing about his lips.

They end up in Castiel’s bathroom together, gravitating into each other’s space without even really thinking about it as they undress properly. It’s a little weird, knowing that this is going to be the first time he’s seen Dean naked, and vice versa. Somehow, it feels even more intimate than having Dean’s lips wrapped around his cock, or the fact that they’re both specked with each other’s come.

He quickly moves past his hesitation once Dean starts to get undressed, however; as soon as his clothing starts hitting the floor, Castiel can hardly look away. _God_ , Dean is gorgeous like this. All smooth skin and muscle and ink, curling over his body and turning him into a work of art. The bars of music on his forearm, the flowers curling up the side of his neck, the sigil and roses and quotes that decorate his skin.

“Wow,” he breathes, pausing with his t-shirt pulled half-off. “You are… really beautiful, Dean.”

Dean’s cheeks are quick to colour, and he hides his flustered pleasure by winking and giving his hips a little shimmy. “What, you like what you see, Cas? Never woulda guessed.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. Dean is so quick to brush off any kind of compliment, to turn it into a joke or a game or just deflect it entirely. Something to work on, for sure, but not right now.

Instead, he lets himself loosen, relax. He’s not in Dom mode any more—he can feel it, like a switch has been flipped inside him. Right now, he’s just Cas, riding the afterglow of his orgasm and in desperate need of a shower and Dean’s touch.

“Very funny,” he murmurs wryly, finishing stripping off his clothes and reaching into the shower to get the water running. Dean sidles up to him and hooks his chin over Castiel’s shoulder, hands settling on his waist; bare skin on blissfully bare skin.

They stand there for a long minute, Dean’s chest rising against Castiel’s back, Cas’s fingers outstretched beneath the water to check its temperature.

“How are you doing?” Dean asks, just as Castiel has decided it’s warm enough.

He feels himself inhale, hold, and then exhale in a long, slow breath.

“Okay,” he says decidedly, because it’s the truth. He _does_ feel okay. Dean smiles, then presses a quick kiss to the skin of Cas’s shoulder, so fleeting that Castiel might have almost thought he imagined it, if not for the smile still playing across Dean’s lips as he steps past Castiel and under the spray of the shower.

The water sluices over his skin, golden in the warm bathroom lighting, and Castiel can’t help but swallow as he watches, his mouth suddenly dry. How has he gotten so lucky, to find such a stunning, kind, patient man who is willing to help him work through all his baggage?

Dean glances over his shoulder at him, his eyes sparkling, lips still quirked upwards. “Well? You coming, or not? You told me you were good, so don’t just stand there,” he teases.

Castiel snorts and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, just loud enough for Dean to hear him—and he does, from the way he laughs, warm and happy as it rings off the tiled walls.

“You got it,” he jokes as Castiel steps into the shower and closes the door behind himself. Dean’s weight leans back against him, all warm, wet, _naked_ skin, and Castiel settles his hands on Dean’s hips. “Must be something good about me if you keep putting up with me, though.”

Cas hums, turning his head to ghost his lips over the curve of Dean’s neck. “I can think of a few good things,” he murmurs, and smiles in satisfaction at the shiver he feels run the length of Dean’s spine.

They stand beneath the water for a minute, Castiel’s arms winding around Dean’s hips and Dean’s back leaning against Cas’s chest. The reactions he gets as he kisses lightly over Dean’s throat are intoxicating, the way Dean leans into his touch and wordlessly asks for _more, please_ …

He’s never had this easy intimacy before, and he’s already starting to wonder how he ever lived without it.

Dean reaches for the shampoo bottle, and Castiel takes it from him without thinking, letting his instincts take over. He wants to care for Dean, wants to make him feel _good_ , and if the way Dean relaxes bonelessly when Castiel massages soapy fingers over his scalp is any indication, he’s doing a good job of it.

They take turns washing each other, and having Dean’s fingers running through his hair and over his skin feels almost as good as the blowjob on the couch had been, in a completely different but still incredible way. It’s so _easy_ with Dean, sharing the same space, breathing the same air. Castiel traces his tattoos with his fingertips as he rubs body wash over Dean’s skin, and marvels at his beauty.

They end up clean and warm and soft, and Dean leans against Castiel as they finally make their way out of the shower with water-pruned skin. He’s so tactile that it makes Castiel’s heart sing—Castiel, who has spent so many years of his life without being touched like this and is only now discovering just how wonderful it can be. If Dean isn’t in contact with him in some way, then he’s close enough for Cas to simply reach out and touch, and it’s so freeing to be able to do just that.

Dean drops his towel from his head, leaving his hair sticking up in all directions from where he’s been drying it. His smile, when he meets Castiel’s gaze, is goofy and full of contentment, and Cas can’t help but reach out, curl his fingers around his chin, and kiss him.

“Stay the night,” he whispers against Dean’s lips; not an order, but an offer, one of softness and vulnerability and hope that _holy shit, this might actually work_.

Dean’s eyes widen, and then his smile softens, all gentle curves and the tiniest flash of teeth.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he murmurs, and kisses Castiel again.

Cas still has a spare toothbrush, still in its packaging, from when Inias had lived here. He and Dean clean their teeth side by side in front of the mirror, stealing glances and bumping elbows and negotiating who gets to spit first with a series of pointed looks and muffled words.

It’s domestic. It’s _heavenly_.

They don’t end up finishing the documentary. Castiel feels weighed down in his bones, and Dean catches him tipping over as they make their way out of the bathroom, propping him up with a hand on his shoulder and a laugh. “Woah there, cowboy,” he teases. “You doing okay?”

“Mmhm,” Castiel mumbles, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. “Just… tired. I think today caught up with me all at once.”

Dean’s eyes crinkle with his smile, and he gently nudges Castiel back upright until he can stand on his own two feet once more. “Yeah, you look wiped. Time for bed?” He looks content, soft, _happy_ —until something passes behind his eyes, and his expression falls. His mouth thins in a worried line.

“Unless, I, uh,” he stammers, shifting on his feet. “Unless you want me to sleep on the couch or something. I don’t wanna misread—“

Castiel cuts him off with a kiss, sweet and sleepy as he smiles against Dean’s lips. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, fitting his hand against Dean’s chest and leaning their foreheads together. “I would like you to sleep in my bed, if you’re okay with that. We can wear boxers, or whatever you’re comfortable with, though. I don’t—I’m okay if we don’t take it any further for a little while.”

There’s a hint of worry in the back of Cas’s mind that _further_ is what Dean wants, but it disappears as he watches Dean’s smile return, so gentle and genuine. “Of course, Cas,” he says, his voice soft. “Whatever speed you’re good with. You just wanna sleep, then we can just sleep. Honestly…” He stifles a yawn with the back of his hand, then grins, green eyes dancing. “That sounds pretty damn good right about now.”

Cas’s heart flip-flops in his chest at Dean’s sated, happy smile. Slowly, he reaches for Dean with his free hand, tangles their fingers together, and leads them down the hallway to his bedroom.

Even though he’s had Dean’s mouth on his cock not even an hour ago, this—pulling out a spare pair of boxer shorts, dressing with elbows bumping and the exchanging of shy smiles—it feels so much more intimate. It’s one thing to hook up with someone, but quite another to invite them to bed for the sole purpose of _sleeping_.

It should feel like too much, too fast, Castiel’s brain tells him, but with Dean… it doesn’t.

It just feels _right_.

They pause, once they’re dressed, and both turn to look at the bed. Cas has never had to share it with someone before, so he always just sleeps in the middle, and the nightstands he purchased for each side solely because they came in a pair are both cluttered with his personal effects. Which begs the questions, which side do they sleep on?

When Castiel looks back over at Dean, he finds Dean watching him, a smile curling the corners of his lips. “Where do you want me?” he asks, hands clasped loosely behind his back and head tilted to the side. He looks beautiful like this, all bare skin and curving tattoos against the blue of Castiel’s boxers.

Wordlessly, Cas takes his hand, intertwining their fingers and leading him over to the bed. His feet sink into the carpet, and he feels as though he’s walking on air, his mind calm and quiet and almost _soft_. He lets go of Dean’s hand as he reaches the side of the bed and climbs in, scooting across the halfway point to make room for Dean and holding the covers up in invitation.

Dean is quick to follow, sliding into the bed beside Cas, who lets the covers fall over him once he’s situated. They take a few seconds to rearrange the pillows—“You’re just one dude, Cas, why do you need so many?”—and Castiel reaches over, turns off the lamp on the nightstand closer to him, and sends the room into darkness.

It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, and he blinks into the darkness until he can make out the shape of Dean’s face in the darkness, the shine of his eyes and the white of his smile. “Hey,” Dean whispers, and beneath the covers, his hand bumps against Castiel’s, their fingers loosely linking together.

“Hello,” Castiel whispers back.

“How are you feeling?” Dean’s voice is a soft murmur now, soothing as it settles into his bones. “How was tonight?”

_How was tonight?_

He doesn’t give himself a chance to overthink his answer. “So good,” he says, feeling a smile curve his lips. “You are… so hot, Dean. _Jesus_. And you’re really good at helping me to just… let go. Forget about everything that goes on in my mind and just _be_.” He lifts Dean’s hand to his lips, brushes a kiss across his knuckles, then lets it rest against the mattress between them.

Dean’s breath hitches, and then he’s shifting, leaning over the short distance between them to kiss Castiel on the lips, soft and sweet and slow. It’s perfect, and Castiel wants to drown in this moment for all eternity.

“I’m glad I could help,” Dean says when he pulls back, and there’s a smile colouring his voice. “We should probably sleep now And if you start feeling… kinda weird, or whatever, you let me know, okay? I can help.”

The reassuring words settle around Castiel like a caress, and he nods, giving Dean’s hand a little squeeze. “Thank you, Dean. The same goes for you, of course, although I assume this is all relatively small fry for you.”

Dean pauses, lips parted, as though he’s figuring out what to say.

“It doesn’t matter how intense it is,” he says finally. “It can happen with any scene—just like any scene can feel fucking incredible, no matter how planned or intense it is.” He chuckles, quiet in the silence of the night. “Just like today. But thank you for looking out for me, Cas. I knew you were gonna be a good Dom, but most importantly, you’re a good person.”

 _A good Dom_.

 _A good_ person _._

Castiel’s heart feels tight in his chest, and he gives Dean a wobbly smile, glad that the darkness is mostly able to hide just how hard Dean’s statement has hit him. “Thank you,” he whispers. “That… that means a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean says, fondness in his voice. His thumb strokes over Castiel’s knuckles, and he sighs out a little exhale as he gets comfortable against the mattress. “Ready for sleep?”

Now that he’s actually paying conscious attention to it, Castiel’s body feels heavy, weighted, as though he could sink right through the mattress. His eyes are starting to droop—today must have taken more emotional energy out of him than he’d thought.

“Ready for sleep,” he confirms, and Dean gives his hand a little squeeze.

“Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

It doesn’t take long for Dean’s breaths to even out, for his hand to go loose in Castiel’s. But Castiel stays awake for a little longer, watching Dean as the faint light that filters in from outside plays over his skin. If anyone had told him six months ago that he’d be here, with a sub in his bed, taking the first steps to understanding his Dominant nature and… seriously thinking about pursuing something with Dean…

He would have thought they were crazy.

But here he is, and here they are. Dean is everything he’d never known he needed, and although some of his guard is still up and his fears are still there, he can feel Dean gently dismantling them, piece by piece.

He stays awake a little longer, just thinking, until sleep finally claims him from his exhaustion and pulls him under.

When Castiel wakes in the morning, the first thing he registers is _warm_.

He’s comfortable and cozy, and pressed against something solid. It takes him a few moments to realise that that something solid is a person, and a few more to recall the events of last night—the documentary, the blowjob, the shower. Inviting Dean to stay the night.

Part of him is prepared for the same drop he’d experienced the last time he’d tried something new—the _oh god, why did I do that, what’s wrong with me?_ But here, pressed close against Dean with the early morning light filtering in through the window…

He feels calm. Drowsily content.

It sets him at ease, and he sighs a content breath against the back of Dean’s neck, letting his eyes fall closed and relishing in the warmth of his body. It’s nice to not have to worry about his own head betraying him, just for a little bit.

For a little while, he slips in and out of sleep. He does, however, stay resolutely pressed against Dean, arm draped over his waist and nose nudging gently against the back of his neck. He’s never had something like this, never gotten to wake up in such an easy coexistence with another person before.

It’s _wonderful_.

Gradually, Castiel starts to wake up more and more, but he’s perfectly happy to stay in bed with Dean like this, especially since Dean seems to be still fast asleep. It is Sunday, after all. They have all the time in the world.

He brushes his lips against the back of Dean’s neck, just because he can, gently peppering the available, easy-to-reach skin with gentle, sleepy kisses.

“Don’t stop,” come Dean’s mumbled words when Castiel pauses, and Cas smiles against his neck.

“Good morning,” he says, pressing a kiss to the junction of Dean’s shoulder and neck—bolder, now that he knows he’s not going to wake Dean up. He might have already, with his other kisses, but Dean clearly isn’t complaining.

Dean mumbles something that sounds vaguely like “G’mornin’,” and sighs at the kiss, tipping his head to give Castiel better access. It’s a clear invitation, and one that Castiel takes full advantage of, pressing up closer to Dean so that he can kiss down his neck, over his shoulders, mapping out the freckled skin and tracing Dean’s ink with his lips. It’s not long before Dean’s breath starts to hitch with every kiss, and soon he’s uttering quiet sounds into the still morning air as Castiel adds a hint of teeth here, or sucks a little mark into Dean’s skin there.

When he finally rolls over to face Castiel, his gaze is still drowsy but dark with arousal, and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth. “Helluva way to wake someone up,” he murmurs, reaching up to wind his arm around Cas’s neck and pull him in for a kiss.

It _is_ a hell of a way to wake someone up, and one that Castiel is now becoming quite fond of, as he curves his hand against Dean’s cheek and kisses him. It’s quick to morph from something soft into a lazily filthy kiss, and Castiel shifts as Dean rolls over further, propping himself up above Dean and slotting himself between Dean’s legs as they fall open to accommodate him.

Dean is hard against his hip, and Castiel feels the same way, unable to stop himself rutting gently against Dean in search of any kind of friction.

The sounds Dean is making into his mouth are good, but muffled by Castiel’s own lips, and Cas wants to _hear_ him. He kisses Dean one last time, deep and wicked in a way that leaves them both gasping for breath, then tilts his head and brushes his lips over the curve of his jaw.

He takes his time finding the places where Dean is most sensitive, where he gasps and moans and makes little, wrecked sounds as he bites his lip, and catalogues them for later. Being able to pull these reactions from him has Castiel buzzing with pride and arousal, and he groans against Dean’s skin as he sucks at the sensitive spot just below Dean’s ear and is rewarded by nails biting into his back.

It’s not long before Dean is quietly begging, in that sleep-roughened voice, for Castiel to _touch_ him, touch him, _please_ , Cas. He teases Dean for a few moments longer, sucking a mark just below his collarbone, then slowly lowers himself down Dean’s body. It’s slow—it _is_ still the morning, everything soft and drowsy and needy—and Dean’s groan when he realizes what Cas is doing is heavenly.

Castiel kisses his way down Dean’s torso, stopping to trace a few of Dean’s tattoos with his lips and tongue on the way, until he reaches the waistband of the boxer shorts. Dean shoves the covers down past his hips so that he can watch as Castiel settles between his legs, but as soon as Cas mouths over the hard line of his erection through the fabric, his head tips back.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas, feels so good. I knew staying the night was a good idea.”

There’s the curve of a smile to his voice, and as much as Castiel likes it when he teases and jokes… right now, something in him itches to push Dean past that, to the point where he’s desperate and capable only of saying Castiel’s name, over and over.

He curls his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s boxers and carefully pulls them down, letting Dean’s cock spring free. Dean groans at the brush of cool air on hot skin, but that’s not where Castiel’s mouth goes first.

No, he takes his time, laving his tongue over the soft skin of Dean’s stomach, his thighs, the V of his hips—everywhere except where he’s hot and hard, straining in the air. “Please, Cas,” Dean says when Castiel pauses, his lips so close that Dean can almost certainly feel the curl of Castiel’s breath over his cock.

As easy as it would be for him to arch up, though, he doesn’t.

Instead, he keeps his hips on the bed, with the exception of a few tiny twitches that Castiel is sure he can’t physically help.

He’s so needy, and so beautiful, and he’s been so patient that it’s definitely time for Castiel to reward him.

He closes the last half inch and presses his lips to the soft skin of Dean’s cock, slowly kissing his way up to the head. Dean groans and swears under his breath, kicking at the covers as he shifts his legs better to bracket Castiel’s body. When Cas closes his lips around the head of his cock, Dean’s fingers thread their way into Castiel’s hair—but don’t pull. Don’t demand. Just stay there, like an anchoring point that he desperately needs to keep himself grounded.

Cas is fine with that—even leans into the hands, just to feel them. He’s never been with someone who likes to touch his hair like Dean does, but then again, a lot of the things he’s doing with Dean are things he’s never done before.

He must be doing _something_ right, to be eliciting this kind of reaction from him.

There’s no rush, counter to what Dean’s needy gasps and quiet pleading might suggest, and so Castiel can take his time. Learn what makes Dean tick. He’s a little clumsy and inexperienced, but he learns more with every second of practice.

Still, even though he likes figuring out what Dean likes and what drives him wild, he doesn’t want to torture him. Not this morning, when the sun is barely peeking through the window and they’re still sleep-drowsy, their voices rough and movements slow.

Perhaps some other time, though.

When Dean’s fingers tighten in Castiel’s hair and he groans out a warning, Cas takes him down as far as he can and bobs his head until Dean comes with a quiet gasp of Castiel’s name and his legs shifting against the mattress as he rides out his orgasm. Cas’s _intention_ had been to swallow, like he’s seen so many guys do in porn, but the reality of it takes him by surprise and he pulls back at the first touch of musk and salt on his tongue.

The rest of Dean’s come stripes against Castiel’s lips and cheek, and he blinks in shock, reflexively swallowing his mouthful.

Dean takes one sated, drowsy look at him and bursts out laughing, while Castiel mock-scowls at him and swipes the come off his bottom lip with his tongue. “Very funny,” he mutters with a smile, nipping gently at the skin of Dean’s hip before propping himself up on his hands. “One day, I’ll get the hang of this without making a mess.”

There’s amusement and bliss and contentment on Dean’s face as he reaches for Castiel and guides him back up the back until they’re nose to nose again, Cas still holding himself up. “And until then,” he says, nudging his fingers under Castiel’s chin and stretching up to kiss him, “I guess we’ll just have to have another shower.”

Castiel’s water bill is going to be atrocious this month.

They end up in the kitchen together, Dean making bacon and eggs while Castiel focuses on the coffee. He takes his time to check on and water his plants while their breakfast cooks, and Dean watches him over the edge of his mug of coffee with a smile. “This place is real homey, Cas.”

Castiel pauses by the window, looks over his shoulder at Dean. He looks so at ease in Castiel’s kitchen, barefoot and leaning one hip against the counter while he sips his coffee, that he can’t help but smile. “Is it? It’s just all the things I like, I suppose. I like to feel comfortable in my space.” He glances up at the Devil’s Ivy that’s hanging by the window frame. “Why, what’s your home like?”

Dean is silent for a few moments—when Castiel looks over, he just shrugs one shoulder. “It’s nothing special,” he says, waving his mug dismissively. “Just a place to sleep, I guess. Never got around to finding anywhere better after I first moved out here, so… it is what it is.”

There must be a crease in Cas’s brow, concern on his face, because Dean chuckles and shakes his head as he turns back to the stove. “It’s okay, Cas, it’s not _terrible_. It does the job, y’know? It’s just not… all cute and decorated and nice like your place is. It’s just a nice change, don’t freak out on me.”

Castiel forces himself to relax. He’s not responsible for Dean’s life, or the way he lives, so there’s no need for him to ‘freak out,’ as Dean says. But… he _likes_ Dean. He wants him to be safe, and happy.

But it’s not his responsibility. They’re just friends.

(Friends who kiss and make each other come and fall asleep pressed closer than any two friends have any right being. But he’s only just finding his feet, he can’t— _can’t_ commit to more, no matter how much he _wishes_ he could.)

“How’s breakfast looking?” he says instead, forcing himself away from the window and away from the thoughts, questions, _confusion_ beginning to creep into his head.

Dean pokes at the bacon as Castiel makes his way over, then grabs two plates out of the cupboards. “Looking good, should be just about ready. You hungry?” he asks over his shoulder, and Cas feels his stomach rumble in response.

“Sounds like it,” he says, quirking his lips up into a quick smile when Dean keeps looking at him, his head tipped slightly to the side. “It smells _great_.”

They hold eye contact for a moment longer, and then Dean’s shoulders relax, and he turns back to their breakfast. “It does, right? Bacon and burgers, those are my specialties—anything else and you’re starting to take risks. But that’s the fun of cooking, isn’t it?”

The grin he gives Castiel is bright and cheeky, and Cas feels his confusion ebb away, just for now. He can’t help but smile back, and the two of them take their plates over to the table together.

But it feels different now.

They crossed a line last night, and again this morning, that they now can’t go back on. That Castiel doesn’t _know_ how to go back on. Being intimate with Dean, and then having to figure out how to go back to having separate lives… he can already feel himself being pulled in two different directions.

As much as he tries to focus on the _now_ —Dean’s knee pressed against his, the two of them eating in amiable silence, the occasional weight of Dean’s gaze on the size of his face—it’s difficult. This exploration of his Dominant side is going to be harder than he’d thought if _this_ is how he’s going to react every time he takes a step further. Because while Dean is here, and while they’re in the moment, he feels fine, but the closer they get to Dean leaving, the more turbulent his thoughts get.

He forces them down, makes small talk with Dean and reacts all the right ways and in all the right places, but he can still see a hint of worry in Dean’s eyes. Once breakfast is finished, and the two of them are clearing up, Dean stops him with a gentle hand to his elbow.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low. “Are you okay?”

Castiel clears his throat and looks away, not sure that he can face whatever emotion is on Dean’s face right now. “I’m fine,” he says—quickly, and without thinking. It’s not the truth, but he doesn’t _know_ what the truth is, can’t put a name to the maelstrom of emotions he’s feeling—all of them centered around _Dean_.

There’s a long pause, Dean’s hand still on Castiel’s elbow, and then he lets it fall. “Okay,” he says quietly. “But… you know you can talk to me about anything, and at any time. I just wanna help, Cas.”

If only Castiel knew _how_ Dean could help.

He does meet Dean’s eyes, though, and forces a small smile. “I know. I’m just… getting used to this, I suppose. I’ve never done a—a ‘friends with benefits’ thing, I believe it’s called. Add that to you being a submissive, and it’s… messing with my head a little.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth pull down momentarily, and just for a second, so fleeting that it’s barely even there, his eyes look sad.

But then it’s gone, and he’s giving Castiel a reassuring smile. “I know it’s a lot. But really, anything you need from me, just let me know. Okay?”

Castiel nods, and they don’t speak much more—not while they finish cleaning, not while Dean brushes his teeth (leaving his toothbrush in the holder besides Castiel’s), not while he put on his shoes and gathers the last of his clothing.

In the end, they make their way to the front door together. Dean steps out of the apartment, into the hallway, then turns to face Castiel.

How do they say goodbye? They woke up together, and Castiel had Dean’s dick in his mouth just this morning, but a kiss feels too romantic, a hug too intimate, a handshake far too perfunctory. In the end, he settles for a small wave, and Dean mirrors it from across the threshold. There’s something disappointed in the slump of his shoulders, but he hides it well otherwise.

Castiel still feels his heart sink, knowing that Dean is upset.

“I’ll see you next weekend,” Dean says, pushing his hands deep into his pockets and giving Castiel a quick smile. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“See you then, Dean,” Cas says with a nod. “Have a good week.”

The moment of silence stretches out between them, neither of them knowing how to make the first move, until Castiel reaches for the door and closes it between them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter turned out to be quite a beast, but. These two idiots had a lot to say to each other. Thanks to [cap](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com) for beta-reading!
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of past Dean/Benny :)

Sunday rolls into Monday, Monday into Tuesday, and so on and so forth.

Castiel can’t stop thinking about Dean.

He tries not to, of course, but that’s easier said than done when Dean’s presence, his _memory_ , lingers in every corner of Castiel’s apartment. When he’s reminded of Dean every time he looks down at the artwork forever inked into his skin.

So Cas pours himself into his work. At least at the museum, he can let himself be buried in cataloguing and analyzing and overseeing—if he’s flat-out with jobs, there’s no _time_ for him to think about what’s going on with Dean. Where they go from here. What they _are_ , now that they’ve been so intimate, and how they keep doing what they’re doing.

He shakes his head, finding himself caught up in his thoughts once more, and forces himself to concentrate on the documents in front of him that he’s been staring at blankly for the last minute.

Like he said— _not_ thinking about all that.

Castiel rubs his hands through his hair and blows out a long breath, then focuses on the words in front of him. They seem to swim before his eyes, and it’s another five minutes before he finally admits defeat. He’s been working like a man possessed all day, after all—pushing himself so hard that Anna had dropped in to check on him after he’d sent her no less than four update emails on things that should have taken him at least two days.

“Cas, is everything okay?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe to his office—because he has one of those, now that he’s an assistant collection manager, which is a little crazy to think about. It’s so nice to have his own space to spread out, and even better that he’s still down in the peace and quiet of the museum basement.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, shooting her a look before returning to typing on his computer. It was supposed to be a ‘I have this handled, I don’t need you fussing over me’ look, but apparently it does the opposite, because the next time he glances up, she has her arms folded, and there’s a frown on her face.

“You’re working yourself too hard. It’s only Wednesday, and you’ve already finished a week’s worth of work. I’m all for you finding your stride and all that, but… you look tired. Have you been doing anything _apart_ from working?”

 _Anything apart from working_. So far Castiel’s last few nights have consisted of him going home, ordering takeout, then working on his laptop on the couch until he falls asleep there. The ghost of Dean haunts his kitchen, his shower, his bed.

“Of course I have,” he mutters, in a way that definitely betrays that he has certainly _not_ been doing that.

Anna’s lips thin into a concerned line. “You need to look after yourself,” she warns quietly. “It’s… easy to get burned out, in a job like this. Especially if you have people like Adler breathing down your neck, pushing you harder and harder. Just don’t work yourself to the bone, okay?”

Castiel stays silent. He doesn’t know how to respond to that—not right now, when he can hardly think of doing anything for himself, because all he wants is Dean.

And that’s not something that he has any confidence with navigating right now, so his current strategy is to ignore the whole situation.

The silence stretches out between them, until Anna breaks it with a sigh. “Alright, Cas. I’m here if you ever want to talk. Some of us are getting lunch in twenty minutes, if you’d like to join us.”

It’s a kind offer. “Thank you,” he says, giving her a quick smile that he doesn’t feel. He won’t go, but at least it means she’s looking out for him.

She nods, then disappears out of sight, and Castiel is left alone with his work once again.

He stares at the blinking cursor on his screen for a few long moments, takes a deep breath, then keeps typing.

He doesn’t realize that he’s missed lunch altogether until it’s almost time for him to go home—to an empty apartment, with no Inias and no Dean and just a bunch of plants to keep him company.

Castiel tries to distract himself by catching up with Inias in the evenings after he’s done with work, going over to his and Hannah’s apartment for dinner after work. It only works so well, though—Inias especially always want to know what he’s been up to. Usually he doesn’t mind it, but right now, the probing questions about Dean are driving Castiel a little insane.

It’s only once he (maybe too forcefully) insists that they’re not an _item_ that Inias realizes he’s serious about wanting the subject to be left alone and backs off. It leaves Castiel with a bad taste in his mouth, though.

He apologizes to Inias for snapping over text the next morning, but stops dropping by their apartment in the evenings and keeps to himself, instead. Every morning when he wakes up, he thinks of waking up with Dean beside him.

Castiel dreads the weekend.

By the time Friday rolls around, Dean has texted him a few times—checking in, asking about his day, things like that. Castiel does his best to be polite but brief. He doesn’t want to upset Dean, or push him away, but it’s so hard to figure out what he should say when he doesn’t know where he stands with Dean, or how he feels about him, or any of the myriad of things he’s unsure about that are constantly pinging around his brain.

So when Dean texts him on Friday and asks if they’re going to be meeting up tomorrow, Cas has no idea what the fuck to say.

He lets the message sit for a while and tries not to look at it. But no amount of ignoring or pretending it’s not sitting in his inbox will make it go away, so when he wakes up on Saturday morning with the whole day ahead of him and a churning anxiety in his stomach, he finally forces himself to respond.

>> I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well.

It takes all his effort to press send, and then he locks his phone and tosses it aside, staring up at the ceiling.

It buzzes not even half a minute later. Castiel lies there for one minute, two, then reaches for it without looking, his chest tight.

<< I could still come over, we don’t have to do anything. My mom used to make the best chicken noodle soup for me when I was little, I could bring some over for you.

<< Unless you don’t want company. That’s fine, too.

Of course Dean offers to bring him soup—and of course Dean can see right through him. He can’t deal with seeing Dean today, enough that he has to make shitty excuses about it. Guilt twists Castiel’s stomach, and he doesn’t know how long he stares at his phone for, trying to figure out what to say. How to respond.

In the end, he goes with:

>> I would rather be alone today. But thank you for the offer.

And then he switches his phone off and forces himself up and out of bed. His stomach is rumbling, and if he lies there overthinking and freaking out and staring silently up at the ceiling for much longer, he’s going to lose his mind.

Breakfast is a low-key affair. Castiel doesn’t have the energy to make anything fancy, especially when the act of doing so only reminds him of last Sunday morning, when he had shared his kitchen so easily with Dean, trading sleepy smiles over mugs of coffee and the smell of cooking bacon.

Now, all he can manage is a bowl of cereal. He eats a few bites, then pokes absently at it until it turns to mush and he’s forced to throw it out.

What the hell is wrong with him? He doesn’t think he can cope with seeing Dean today, not when his brain is such a mess, but he also can’t stop thinking about Dean for long enough to function as an actual human being.

So, determined to do his best not to spend his entire weekend wallowing in thoughts of the tattoo artist who has so thoroughly disarmed him, Castiel puts himself to work.

Every single one of his plants is checked, their humidity measured, every inch of their leaves examined for spots or discoloration or anything that could require his attention. The apartment gets a spotless clean—every room except Inias’s old one—scrubbed and vacuumed and washed and polished until it looks like it’s just fallen right out of a house catalogue.

After that, he rolls out his mat in the living room and does some yoga, considering how his back is now aching from the relentless cleaning. It helps, to some extent. His body feels a little better once he’s done, but his mind is still busy. He can’t  _quite_ shut it down in the same way that he usually can when he’s meditating.

So Castiel moves on to other tactics.

Having foreseen this possibility, he’s brought a sizeable amount of his work home with him. Now he sets himself up on his couch with his laptop and a coffee ( _and_ some water, considering it’s now pushing into the afternoon and he shouldn’t really be drinking much more coffee for the day unless he wants to stay up all night thinking about things), and gets stuck into his paperwork.

It works surprisingly better than he’d intended. By the time the shadows are starting to lengthen across his apartment, he’s gotten a whole chunk of work done, and with minimal interruptions or distractions by errant and unwanted thoughts. He’d had to get up a few times, for food and whatnot, but mostly he’s been absorbed in his work.

It’s a good feeling, until he finally sets his laptop down and realizes that he’s burnt out on work stuff—and it’s now _properly_ Saturday evening.

Time he _could_ be spending with Dean if he wasn’t such an idiot and actually knew how to deal with his conflicting feelings.

But he doesn’t. He _doesn’t_ know how to deal with his attraction to Dean. His fear of committing to something more. His _terror_ of fucking up a sub with his Dominant nature, with the possibility that he could still be capable of the same twisted horrors that Naomi was.

And so Castiel puts on his workout clothes, and he goes for an evening run. Turning his phone back on so that he can access his music yields no new messages from Dean. He’s not sure how he feels about that, so he turns his music up and tries not to think about it.

After his run, he alphabetizes his bookshelves, then peruses Yelp for almost half an hour in search of a takeout place he hasn’t tried yet, methodically narrowing down his options until he settles on the best one.

Once his dinner arrives, he sits back down in his living room and tries to concentrate on the food and whatever’s on TV and not on Dean.

It’s not long before his phone buzzes.

<< Hey, how are you feeling?

Without overthinking, Castiel closes his messaging app and places it facedown on the coffee table in front of him, then forces himself to keep watching TV. It buzzes once or twice more before he finally drags himself into bed, exhausted by a full day of avoidance and emotional turbulence. Every time it happens, he collapses the notification and doesn’t read the message.

For all that he’s tired himself out today, though, once he’s in bed, he can’t help but look over at the side of the bed that his brain has designated as ‘Dean’s’, and wish that he was able to make a decision one way or the other.

He wishes that he wasn’t so fucked up.

Sunday follows a similar pattern to Saturday (but with more work and less cleaning), and by the time he’s waking on Monday morning, it’s feeling as though his weekend wasn’t very restful at all. At least Dean has stopped texting him—not that Castiel has read any of his messages yet. He can’t bring himself to.

He could very easily stay in bed and mope, but he’s well aware that that route will only lead to him wallowing in his feelings and worry, and so he forces himself to get up. His apartment doesn’t need to be cleaned twice in three days, and he may as well put his restless, frenetic energy into something useful—such as the job that pays him to actually work—instead of calling in sick.

But work is mostly uneventful.

Castiel and Anna spend most of the day in her office, going over the final stages of processing the new collection that will be revealed to the public in just a few weeks. They’re remarkably on top of things, especially considering all the paperwork that Castiel had occupied himself with over the weekend, so when Zachariah calls them into his office for a quick meeting to check on their progress, he seems pleasantly surprised.

He _also_ spends most of the meeting directing his questions and comments to Castiel. Cas is achingly aware of the Dominant mark burning against his skin beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and defers to Anna on most of the topics they cover.

Anna, understandably, is clearly fighting to contain her irritation at being passed over in such a manner, and it only serves to worsen the churning in Castiel’s gut. Things would be so much easier if he weren’t a Dominant, and the tattoo that was supposed to disguise his mark doesn’t even help any more because it was _Dean_ who put it there.

By the time he’s leaving work, it’s just after five thirty, and there’s an itch under his skin that makes him feel as though he’s about to start vibrating in place, he’s so worked up. He’s just stepping out of the building, hoisting his satchel onto his shoulder and running an exhausted hand through his hair, when—

“Cas.”

Castiel startles at the voice, and at the use of his name, spinning on his heel. He hadn’t been paying attention when he’d been letting himself out of the museum’s staff exit, but now that he’s suddenly on alert, he notices what he hadn’t before, and his stomach sinks into his feet.

Dean is leaning against the building, his head tipped back against the stone, hands pushed deep into his pockets. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks _tired_ , as though he’s barely slept. There’s little expression on his face—he just watches Castiel neutrally, as though he’s not sure what to expect, or how he should be feeling.

As though there’s a wall in place between the two of them.

Castiel starts to feel impossibly guiltier, but he doesn’t know what to say. He stands rooted to the spot on the pavement as people pass by between them, unable to look away from those tired, green eyes that are the only thing betraying the extent of Dean’s hurt.

Eventually, Cas steps forward towards Dean, stopping the flow of pedestrians from passing between them.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, because of all the things he could say or do right now, _that’s_ the one resonating most strongly in his heart. Because he and Dean had taken a big step together—and then Castiel had cut him out without warning, simply because he’d freaked out at the faintest suggestion of what the future between them could look like.

Dean deserves so much better.

Dean’s gaze doesn’t leave Castiel’s face, but it does _search_ , flicking between his eyes. It’s almost like he’s trying to decipher what Cas is thinking, what he’s _feeling_ , and a few long moments pass while they stand in silence on the sidewalk.

Finally, Dean exhales a long breath and nods, almost to himself, as he pushes off the wall. “Will you have dinner with me?”

It’s not at all what Castiel was expecting him to say, and he blinks, caught off guard. He’s spent the whole weekend ignoring Dean’s texts, and now Dean wants to get dinner with him? It feels like there’s some kind of ulterior motive behind the offer, but Castiel has no idea what it could be, even as he turns the question over in his mind.

Finally, he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll get dinner with you. Where are we going?”

Dean turns and starts walking without waiting for Castiel—who jogs to catch up, still bewildered by the fact that Dean had _shown up at his work_ , and then _asked if he wanted to get dinner_. “My friend has a restaurant a few blocks away,” Dean says, but doesn’t elaborate. Exhaustion and upset roll off him in waves, and Castiel’s stomach churns guiltily.

_Why had he ignored Dean’s texts? Why hadn’t he wanted to see Dean?_

Because that would mean trying. That would mean _committing_. That would mean opening himself up fully to the side of him that’s Dominant, instead of it just being… some casual experiment.

And fuck, as much as he likes Dean, that thought still scares him.

They walk in silence, Castiel always a fraction of a step behind Dean as he lets him lead towards wherever they’re going. He doesn’t know what, if anything, to say to Dean, but if he wants to get dinner together, he must have something to say to Castiel.

For now, he just has to wait and find out what that might be.

After a few minutes of walking, they find themselves outside a restaurant—rustic-looking but classy, with the name ‘Petit Chéri’ emblazoned across the awning. Dean holds the door open for Castiel, who murmurs a quiet ‘thank you’ as he steps inside.

It’s even more endearing inside than it is out, populated with small tables and lit in such a way that is warm, friendly, a little romantic. It’s homely and welcoming, and Castiel feels part of him relax, just a little bit.

Until one of the servers comes up to them with a smile, his eyes fixed on Dean.

“Hey, Dean!” he says, in a tone born of familiarity and ease. Immediately, something inside Castiel is set on edge. “Weren’t you here yesterday?”

_Yesterday?_

Castiel looks over at Dean, whose jaw is set tight, his brows faintly creased in an unhappy frown. He won’t look Castiel in the eye. “Hi, Andy. Yes, I was.” His voice carries a hint of tension to it. “Can we get a table for two, please?”

Now, Andy turns, looking Castiel up and down in a quick once-over that he doesn’t bother to disguise. His eyes narrow slightly, as though he’s thinking. Connecting dots. “Of course,” he says after a moment, and his smile reappears as he returns his focus to Dean. “Right this way.”

They’re led to a table towards the back of the restaurant, in a slightly quieter and more secluded area. In any other situation, it would be lovely and romantic and Castiel would be welcoming the opportunity to talk to Dean. Now, though, with his own fears and indecision, Dean’s clear tension, and the fact that Castiel has spent all weekend ignoring him?

It doesn’t feel like it’s going to make for a particularly relaxing evening.

They settle into their respective seats, and Dean still won’t make proper eye contact, not even when Andy leaves them with their menus and disappears to serve other tables. He doesn’t even look at his, just pushes it aside, drumming his fingertips on the table.

Castiel can’t pretend to look through the menu for very long before his own morbid curiosity bubbles to the surface.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks, even though he’s not quite sure he wants to know the answer.

For the first time in several minutes, Dean looks him straight in the eye. There’s still guardedness there, and some pain, but it’s a step in the right direction. “I needed to talk to you, and have a proper conversation, and this is a place that I like. My friend owns it, so at least if this talk goes downhill, I know the food won’t be shitty.”

Castiel swallows, taking in the grim humor in the tightness of Dean’s lips. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he stays silent, dropping his gaze down to his menu once more. All the words are jumbling together, and his chest feels so tight that he can hardly focus.

When the waiter comes back, he orders something arbitrary and hopes that it turns out to be okay. Dean gets ‘the usual,’ whatever that is, and then Andy is taking Castiel’s menu from him and he no longer has anywhere to hide.

He can’t ignore Dean now. Hadn’t been planning to, considering he’d agreed to come here in the first place, but sitting across from Dean and being on the cusp of what is definitely going to be a heavy conversation makes him want to disappear in a big way.

Dean interlaces his fingers, flattens them against the tabletop, then lets out a long exhale.

“You ignored me,” he says, looking down at his hands. The words are so matter of fact. “I texted you, and I asked you how you were going because I was worried about you, and you ignored me.”

Castiel’s heart sinks. “Dean, I—“

One of Dean’s hands lifts lightning-fast, his finger held up to stop Castiel in his tracks. “I’m not done,” he says, and he’s never heard Dean so flat. It’s as though he’s holding back his emotions like a floodgate, letting only the barest trickles through.

“For me, last week was really great. Like I’ve said before, I really like you, and I think I’m good for you. We work well together, and I’d love to see what would happen if we really gave this a shot. But I think we ended on a slightly different page, and because you’ve barely spoken to me all week, I don’t know where I stand with you.”

“ _I_ don’t know where we stand with us,” Castiel says, his words quiet but emphatic. “I’ve never done anything like this before, and the thought of committing to a—a _relationship_ with you is terrifying.”

That feels like the wrong thing to say even as the words leave his mouth, but he can’t take them back now, so he just has to bear the hurt that flickers briefly across Dean’s expression before he closes off again.

“Why is that so terrifying?” he asks, and before he had seemed almost angry, but now his voice is quiet. He sounds upset. Tired.

But if they’re hashing this out properly, if Dean has gone to all the effort of catching him after work and they’ve come all this way to _talk_ , Castiel needs to be honest. He takes a deep breath, and tries to separate the crushing guilt of hurting Dean from his need to communicate truthfully. “Because… up until now, it’s felt like an experiment. As though I’m testing it out, but I could back out if I needed to. If I suddenly found that it became too much.”

Dean reels back, then sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out slowly.

“I don’t know how much more I can do,” he says, every word sharp and tense, “to show you that there’s more to being a Dominant than just abusing people. You need to make a choice—you need to be all the way in, or all the way out. I can’t keep doing this fucking half-half thing, because that’s not the kind of person I am.”

It’s clear that he’s upset, in the cadence of his voice and the _look_ in his eyes that is the complete opposite of every emotion Castiel has ever wanted to cause in Dean. Now that it knows how good it feels to take him apart, to make him sing with the effects of Castiel’s praise, hurting him feels… so wrong.

“I don’t—“ He starts, but again, Dean cuts him off before he can finish his thought.

“I need you to think about it, okay?” His words are earnest. Pleading. Those green eyes hold Castiel’s gaze and don’t let go. “Because this past weekend really fucking sucked for me, and if you’re going to keep making me d—“ He pauses, takes a deep breath. “If you’re going to keep pushing me away like this, then I have no choice but to walk away.”

Castiel curls his fingers into fists, his nails biting into his palms. This conversation is pulling him apart, piece by piece. “I can’t give you an answer right now,” he grits out.

Dean raises his hands, palm out. “I’m not asking for right now,” he says. “But I _am_ asking for an answer by the end of tonight. I’m not kidding when I say I can’t keep living in this state of limbo with you. I would be happy to be your boyfriend, I would be happy to keep helping you work through all your baggage, but the one thing I can’t do is let you pick me up and put me back down when it suits you.”

And _that_ feels like a slap in the face.

It’s true, Castiel knows that it’s true, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting, and he recoils as though he’s been physically struck.

The silence draws out between them, so thick with conflict and tension that Castiel can barely breathe, until—

“I need some air.”

He doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, doesn’t even realize he’s spoken until he’s pushing back from the table, his body moving without conscious thought. All he knows is that he needs distance and time to recollect his thoughts before this conversation with Dean goes any further, because right now, he’s hurting, and he knows he won’t be able to properly process anything else they say until he has a break.

Dean had been so openly earnest before, but from the way he shuts off now, leaning back in his chair and gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles whiten, it’s clear that he believes that once Castiel disappears from his sight, he won’t be coming back.

Cas pauses halfway through pushing back from the table, and waits until Dean meets his eyes. “I’m coming back,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t just disappear. I may be terrible at committing and making scary decisions, but I’m not _that_ shitty a person.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, and then his expression softens just for a second, there and gone again before Castiel can even blink. It was tentative, and fragile, but it was there, and it makes Castiel think that just maybe… he can save this.

It feels like he’s walking on autopilot as he makes his way out of the restaurant, letting the front door close behind himself and walking a few feet to where glass windows give way to brick and he can lean back against something solid while he regains his bearings. The night air is soothing, especially as he forces himself to take deep breaths.

_“You need to make a choice.”_

Breathe in.

_“The one thing I can’t do is let you pick me up and put me back down when it suits you.”_

Breathe out.

He can understand how Dean feels. To have shared such a great night together last week, to have stepped past boundaries that Castiel has never crossed before… it had been an incredible experience. But then to have Castiel almost completely ghost him, pathetically afraid of committing to something _more_ , even after how much Dean has helped him and how much they like each other…

Castiel lets his head thunk back against the brick. Fuck, he’s such an idiot. Dean is amazing—it shouldn’t be so hard to just say, “Yes, I would like to date you.”

And yet, here he is.

Idiot or not, though, he can’t imagine letting Dean walk out of his life. He thinks he knows the choice he’s going to make, but actually saying it, shaping those words and putting them out into the ether…

That might be a little more difficult.

He doesn’t stay outside for more than a few minutes, achingly aware of how much time is passing, and when he walks back into the restaurant, his head feels a little clearer.

But as he winds his way between the tables and nears the place where he and Dean had been sitting, he realizes that Dean is no longer alone.

There’s another man sitting with him, having pulled up a chair to one of the empty sides of the table. He’s big, and handsome, if one were into that sort of man, and he’s smiling with Dean, touching him, making him laugh, as though the two of them have known each other forever.

And on his forearm, below the rolled-up sleeve of his chef’s jacket, is the mark of a Dominant.

The feeling that courses through Castiel is one that he’s never experienced before. It’s jealousy, and protectiveness, and anger, and it bubbles up inside his veins so quickly that he barely manages to catch himself before he says or does anything that he’ll regret.

Instead, he stiffly closes the distance between himself and the table, and he can see the moment that the stranger realizes he’s there. The guy straightens up, and his blue eyes go from friendly to sharp as he appraises Castiel.

It hurts to see Dean close off again as Cas sits back down, but he hasn’t earned any of Dean’s smiles or attention. Not tonight, not yet.

“Benny, this is Cas,” Dean says, and Benny’s eyes are still fixed on Castiel, sizing him up. Cas doesn’t let himself be cowed—just stares right back. “Cas, Benny.”

“Nice to meet you,” Castiel says.

Benny nods. “Likewise.” His accent is lovely, and Cas imagines Dean falling for a big man with big hands and a gentle voice. He tries to suppress the jealousy that rears its head inside him, and instead asks;

“How do you two know each other?”

They share a look—words being passed silently between them, a conversation that Castiel isn’t privy to and that burns in his chest—and then Benny says, “We met when Dean moved out here. He’s done a coupl’a my tattoos, and we’ve been friends for a while. Dean’s good people.” His eyes are like steel. Challenging. Protective. “I’d ask how you met Dean, but he’s already told me a lot about you.”

From the tone in his voice, it doesn’t take a genius to understand that not everything Dean has said about him as been positive. Castiel swallows.

“ _Benny_.” Dean’s voice is quiet but sharp. A soft reprimand, but a reprimand nonetheless.

Benny spreads his hands, leans back in his chair. “What? It’s true. Besides, I told you I wanted to have a little chat with my buddy Cas, here.” He smiles, quick and endearing. “I got one of my chefs to whip up some apple pie, since I knew you were coming ‘round. Can you give us a few minutes to talk?”

Dean’s jaw is set, and for a few moments, he looks between Benny and Castiel, as though he’s weighing up his options. Finally, he sighs, and scrapes his chair back from the table. “Fine,” he says. “Play nice. You guys have five minutes, and I’m getting Andy to give me a free slice of pie since you’re kicking me off my own table."

“Anything you want, _cher_ ,” Benny says with a grin. “No more than five minutes, I promise.”

And then Dean leaves, and Castiel is left alone with Benny.

“You two are very close,” he observes, as they both watch Dean disappear into the kitchen.

Benny hums, leaning his elbows on the table. He’s a big man, and those steel-blue eyes are more than a little intimidating, but Castiel holds his ground. “We are,” Benny agrees. “He’s one of my best friends.” He pauses for a few seconds, as though he’s weighing up what he’s about to say, then adds, “I’m the one who played the Dominant role for him before you came along.”

It’s not at all what Castiel had expected him to say, and the new information sends him reeling.

He’d known, deep down, that Dean would have had to have someone to ground him in the way he’s been doing for Castiel. Someone to keep his biology in balance.

And this man is it.

“I didn’t know that,” he says quietly, after a few long seconds have passed.

Benny makes a quick, sympathetic expression. “Didn’t think you did. We haven’t been… well, intimate, since he met you, but he’s come to me a couple times since to get me to ground him. He was such a mess last night, I’m surprised he’s even functioning today, honestly.”

_“If you’re going to keep making me d—“_

Castiel remembers what Dean had told him about dropping. How it could happen to subs and Doms alike. He’d ignored Dean all day yesterday, when Dean had just wanted to help. Pushed him away like he didn’t matter.

Dean had dropped.

 _Because of me_.

It feels like he’s taken a bullet to the chest, like his ribs have collapsed in on themselves and stolen his capacity to breathe. The guilt he feels is so fucking overwhelming that it takes him several seconds to come back to himself. Fuck, he’d been so _selfish_.

“Yeah,” Benny says, now that Castiel understands the full weight of his words. “You haven’t been treating him as well as you should, considering everything he’s done for you. I hope you realize that now.”

He does. He definitely does.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Castiel says quietly. He curls his hands into fists and presses them against the table. It’s like he can feel his mark burning against his skin. “Why does he—why is he even giving me a second chance?”

Benny leans forward, folding his arms on the table and lowering his voice. His expression is softer. More understanding. “You know why,” he tells Castiel. “He likes you.  _Really_ likes you. And he’s trying so hard to be what you need. He’d run himself into the ground to please you. But if you can’t be what he needs, and you can’t treat him the way he deserves to be treated… you’re best off letting him go.”

His words are honest, open, and Castiel can feel his heart splintering.

“So when you’re thinking about the answer you’re going to give him tonight,” Benny finishes, leaning back once more. “Just remember that. I won’t let you fuck him up any more.” 

Castiel clenches his jaw, turning Benny’s words over in his head. They don’t make his decision any _less_ terrifying, and knowing that this man is the Dominant who’s been helping Dean—especially after Castiel has fucked up and not looked after him properly, not been aware of the effects of his actions…

“You have so much more experience,” he says quietly. “You know him. Why would he choose me to be his Dominant—especially after all the mistakes I’ve made?”

“It’s more than just being a Dom, Castiel.” Benny glances over at the door to the kitchen, making sure that Dean is still occupied elsewhere, then turns his attention back to Castiel. “Dean and I are friends—that’s all we’ll ever be, and we’re both fine with that. But you… he sees a future with you. He wants you as more than just a friend, or as friends with benefits, or whatever the hell you’ve been calling it in your head.”

 _More_.

He’s not sure if Benny’s words have helped, or just made his decision more terrifying, but either way, it’s information he needed to know. Needed to hear.

Regardless, if there was more that Benny was going to add, he doesn’t get a chance, because at that moment, the door to the kitchen swings open, and Dean appears, plate of apple pie in one hand and fork in the other. He’s distracted, for a moment, talking to someone back in the kitchen, and Castiel’s heart clenches at how beautiful and relaxed and _happy_ he is.

And then he looks back towards the table where Castiel and Benny are sitting, and some of that happiness fades away. Apple pie in hand or not, he looks wary. He looks _tired_.

Cas _hates_ that he’s having that effect on Dean. He only ever wants to bring him joy.

In that moment, he thinks he knows what his decision will be.

“All done with your dick-measuring contest?” Dean quips as he sits back down, setting the plate and the half-eaten pie down in front of himself.

“All done,” Benny confirms, and there’s a twinkle in his eye as he claps Castiel on the back just a little too hard to be considered friendly. “Castiel and I had a good chat. I’m sure you’ve got some stuff to talk about, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make sure the kitchen hasn’t been burnt down yet.”

He stands from the table, but before he goes, he bends down to whisper something in Dean’s ear. Castiel can’t hear what he says, and Dean’s expression barely changes, his green gaze holding Castiel’s the whole time. “Okay,” he says finally, when Benny is done. “Thanks, bud.”

Benny pats him on the shoulder, much gentler than he had to Castiel, then replaces his chair at the neighboring table and disappears back into the kitchen.

Now it’s just the two of them once more, and the lingering question:

What will they become after tonight?

There’s a tension in the air, now that Castiel is alone with Dean once more; one that rattles through Cas’s bones and sets him on edge. This is a big decision, and it’s been a long time since he was faced with one of this magnitude.

The last time, he’d closed his eyes, trusted himself, and taken the leap.

It’s time to do the same now.

“Dean,” he says, before he can second guess himself or talk himself out of the choice he’s known he would make, deep down, all this time. Fuck being scared. He still has so much to get comfortable with, so much to learn about being a Dominant, but… there’s no one else he would rather embark on that journey with.

Dean is watching him, an unreadable expression in his eyes, but there’s also a curiosity there. One that says _go on_.

So Castiel does.

“I’ve been a selfish asshole,” he begins, and can’t help but smile at the quick upturn of Dean’s lips. It boosts him just that little bit he needs to keep going. “I haven’t given enough thought as to how my actions, and my lack of commitment, have impacted you. Last weekend, when you stayed the night… that’s a step I’ve never taken, and that foray into uncharted territory terrified me once I realized what it could mean. But I never want to hurt you, or put you in a situation where you had to seek the help of another Dominant, and that made me realize… I can’t just walk away. I can’t just be friends. And I certainly can’t keep going the way I have been, when it’s so unfair to you. Which… really only leaves me one option.”

He takes a deep breath—there’s the barest hint of a smile on Dean’s face now, hope shining bright in his eyes, and it makes Castiel’s heart beat bravely against his chest.

“I would like… for this to be a date,” he says, and he’s surprised by how steady his voice is when he says that. “I would like to date you.”

The smile on Dean’s face morphs into a full-blown grin, and _god_ , it feels so much better to see Dean happy again instead of closed-off and sad. He never wants to hurt Dean like that again.

“You askin’ me to be your boyfriend, Cas?” Dean asks, leaning forward in his chair. Beneath the table, his foot bumps against Cas’s and stays there—the first proper point of contact they’ve had all night.

Castiel feels warm in a way that he hasn’t felt for… well, ever, really.

“Yes, Dean,” he says, allowing himself his own smile as he reaches across the table and takes Dean’s hand in his. “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As cap so eloquently put it: "awwwwww! head-ass removal!"

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo) <3
> 
> Also! If you are a fan of Destiel, and are looking for a place where like-minded Dean and Cas lovers congregate, come join the discord server [Profound Bond](https://discord.gg/ARS3D3C)! It's a fantastic place, and we would love to have you :)


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